Emperor and Clown (7 page)

But
Darad! When that monstrous man had attempted to abduct Inosolan, it had been
Kadolan who had thrown the burning oil on his back. All the other injuries and
indignities he had suffered thereafter had stemmed from that, and she could not
believe that the slow-witted jotunn killer would be prone to ready forgiveness.
If Sagorn needed to call Darad, then her little expedition was going to sink
without trace, and she with it.

She
hesitated at the door. “I am ready, Doctor.”

“Would
that wrapping a turban were as easy as bandaging!” he said. “Have you any small
implements?”

“What
sort of implements?”

“Little
knives or hat pins.”

“Hat
pins, Doctor? In Zark? Really!” But she went and fumbled among her things, and
remembered the tray by the bed, which yielded a fruit knife. Then she jumped as
Sagorn strode in, bedecked in the loose garments and flowing cloak of Zarkian
nobility. They were dark, but the light would not yet admit what color-green,
probably. There was a strong odor of must about them and his turban was
crooked, but anyone close enough to question such details would have much more
pressing queries about his pallid jotunn face.

She
bobbed a curtsy. “I congratulate you on your tailor, Doctor.”

He
chuckled. “I couldn’t have asked for better, could I? If words of power bring
good luck, then perhaps these are a good sign. Our luck is holding.”

He
accepted the little knife, and a few pins, and a buttonhook. He declined a
shoehorn and a belt buckle. “Lead on, Highness,” he said. “And may your God of
Love be with a pair of old fools.”

Kadolan
found that remark in very poor taste, and decided he must be nervous. She led
the way down the corridor, being as quiet as possible. She was somewhat nervous
herself, truth be told. She tried to remember that she was doing this for
Inosolan, who surely deserved a little luck at last.

Three
words made a mage. A mage could cure wounds and sickness, and burn scars,
certainly. If only she could have more faith in her own word of power! Even if
all the words had started off equal-whenever and wherever they had started
off-then some must have become greatly weakened since, diluted by too many
sharings. Perhaps they even wore out from too much use, and the one she knew
was centuries old, one of Inisso’s.

The
corridors were stuffy, bitter-scented with dust, and still hot from the day.
Massive XIVth Dynasty statues stood in rows along the walls-too valuable to
throw away, too ugly to be wanted.

She
tiptoed past the room where four maids slept, and another where the housekeeper
snored. Then her feet brought her to the outside door, and a thin slit of light
showed below it. This was as far afield as she had been since Inosolan’s
wedding night.

Sagorn
went close to the door and very gently tried it. Then he stooped to whisper in
her ear.

“Locked
or bolted?”

“Locked,
I think,” she breathed back. “Guards, outside?”

“Likely.”

She
thought he would give up then and turn back, but he merely nodded. He was
barely visible, for the window was small and the little vestibule dark. It
smelled strongly of beeswax.

“Thinal,
then. Hold this sword handy.” Sagorn drew the blade, and she took it gingerly
and stood close as ...

As
the figure beside her seemed to collapse to half size, and there was the imp
youth she had seen once in Inisso’s chamber of puissance. As then he was
comically bundled in vastly oversized clothes. He put up a hand to straighten
the turban, which had slipped sideways during the transformation. His dark eyes
were little higher than hers, and near, and they glittered. For a moment he just
seemed to be studying her, as if trying to find traces of magic in her. Without
looking, he reached in a pocket and brought out the fruit knife. It glittered
also.

“Princess?”
His voice was so soft that he seemed to convey the words without any sound at
all. “Princess Kadolan! What’s for me that I help you give away a word of power
when there’s needier bodies to hand?”

Kadolan’s
scalp pricked at his revelation of the occult. Sagorn had guessed her secret,
and whatever he knew, all the others knew also, including this little felon.
She held the sword, but she had no illusions of being able to hold him off if
he tried to take it away from her. He was a fraction of her age, doubtless well
versed in back-alley athletics. He could probably best her with nothing but the
fruit knife. She had not been prepared for Thinal.

“Well?”
he said, still soft as gossamer. “What’s my gain if I risk my life for you?”

Did
he want her to offer him payment? He could steal all the wealth he might ever
want. Her tongue felt dry. “Not for me. For Inosolan.”

“I
give no spit for Inosolan! Would she risk her life for me?”

Kadolan
could not think of a plausible reply. Then his teeth gleamed also.

“You
need me!” He sounded surprised. “Even if you could twist me to call any of the
others, they’d be useless. Only I can climb from the balcony. Only I can open
this door! You all need me!” He grinned more widely.

“What
do you want?”

“The
word. Now! Then I’ll go tell Rap.”

“You
expect me to trust you?”

“You
got no choice, lady!” Even that minuscule whisper was filled with brazen glee.
How often had this guttersnipe ever felt important to anyone, or had power to
bargain?

“No.
I tell the word to Rap or to no one. It is too frail a word to divide further.”

He
shrugged, maybe. “Then I’m gone. The whole idea ‘is moonshine anyway. It’s dawn
already.” He headed back toward the corridor.

“Stop!”
Kadolan said, as loud as she dared. “Or I scream!” She raised a fist as if to
thump on the door, hoping a cat burglar could see better in the dark than she
could.

He
stopped and turned.

“Guards?”
she said. “There are guards just outside. I will call them.”

“Stupid
old baggage!” He took a pace toward her, and she half expected to feel Darad’s
hands on her throat.

“What
about Rap?” she said desperately. “So Inos wouldn’t risk her life for you-would
he? For a friend?” It was the wildest guess of her life.

“Of
course not! Well, not unless . . .” His voice changed. “But I suppose he’s just
about crazy enough to . . . In Noom, when Gathmor . . . If . . . Oh, crap! You
would have to say that, wouldn’t you?” Thinal stepped past her to the door, did
something with the fruit knife, and the lock clicked ...

Andor
snatched the sword from Kade’s grasp and thew open the door, reeled through
into brilliant lamplight, and stopped, swaying and blinking. Kade followed-and
recoiled.

The
anteroom contained two guards, true. There were many weapons and clothes
scattered around the floor, and also cushions. Also the guards themselves. And
also four women. All six were asleep, all unclothed. The air stank like a wine
shop.

Andor
hiccuped, staggered, and . . .

Sagorn
slid the sword awkwardly back into the scabbard. Kadolan followed him across
the room, trying to keep her eyes averted from the remains of the orgy, but
that was impossible. There were very few places safe to put feet, and she had
to hold her skirts high lest they trail on the tangle of bodies and limbs. She
breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her.

“Fortunate
that Thinal did not call your bluff,” Sagorn remarked, steadying her arm on the
stairs-or perhaps letting him steady her; two old fools, stumbling down a
league of unlighted steps in a palace like an armed camp.

“I
had noticed some of the maids yawning a lot.”

“West.”

“Beg
pardon?”

“We
just turned west. I am keeping track.”

“Oh,
that’s nice.”

Eventually
they ran out of staircases, and a short exploration brought them to kitchen
quarters, large and echoing and smelling of rank meat. Junior drudges snored in
corners and under tables. Soon they would be roused to perform the first
duties, but they would be unlikely to question well-dressed persons, and even
less likely to raise an alarm. The intruders picked their way through the
shadows from one guttering lantern to another, from window to window. Things
scuttled along the skirting-rats, maybe, or worse. Kadolan wondered about
snakes and scorpions, not sure if she wanted more light here or less.
Cockroaches like terriers! If any of the castle kitchens had looked like this
in Krasnegar, Mistress Aganimi would have hurled herself from the battlements.

Then
a door that obviously led to the exterior. “Cover your face, ma’am,” Sagorn
said. “There may well be a way to the jail that does not require going outside,
but I can’t take a week to find it. Walk behind me.”

He
shot back the bolts, and the hinges creaked ...

The
Palace of Palms was a city in itself. Some of the buildings were
interconnected, others stood apart in parkland. It had streets and alleys, wide
courtyards and shady cloisters, its many levels connected by ramps and wide
stairways. Sagorn stayed close to walls, as much as he could; he headed east,
and generally downhill. He seemed to know roughly where he was going. The sky
was starting to turn blue overhead, and above the lip of the sea it held a
reddish stain like washed blood.

Twice
he pushed Kade into doorways as patrols went by in the distance. There must be
guards on high places who might see. It was madness, total madness. At last he
brought her to an alley and stopped. He wiped his face with a thin, pale hand.
For a minute he seemed to lack breath.

“This
is the building! How to get in, though?” The stonework looked older than most,
but Kadolan doubted that even Thinal could scale it, and the windows were all
barred, even on the topmost, third story.

“We
shall have to find a door,” she said, and set off along the alley. His
footsteps followed. She found a door. It was very small, and very solid, with a
small peephole but no handle or keyhole.

“Bolt
hole,” Sagorn muttered. “Back exit. Not an entrance.”

That
one looked hopeless. Kadolan continued her progress. Maddeningly, the buildings
on the other side had several doors, most raised a couple of cubits above
ground level, as if for unloading wagons. One of them was ajar, too. She
wondered if the cellars might connect belowground, but as Sagorn had said, they
did not have a week to explore. The alley led to a courtyard. She peered
cautiously around the corner, along to the main entrance, an imposing archway
with guards posted. She backed hurriedly.

“It
will have to do!” she said firmly, and retraced her steps to the obscure little
door they had found earlier. She stopped a few paces back from it and racked
her brains.

“Even
Darad can’t break that down!” Sagorn protested. His deep-grooved face was gray
with worry. “If he had an ax and an hour and no interruptions . . .”

Kadolan’s
heart was fluttering like a butterfly, and she felt light-headed. Somewhere she
had cast herself adrift; she was reckless with a victory-or-death sensation she
had never known before. It must be her jotunn blood showing, a trait from some
ancient berserker ancestor. She wondered if she might have a seizure before the
problem was resolved, and discovered that she did not care. She was staking
everything now.

“I
can’t go back, can I? Let’s knock and see what happens.”

He
closed his eyes and shuddered. “Then I must call Darad.”

“Andor?
If I knock, and someone comes, then Andor could talk him into opening the door.”

Sagorn
shook his head wearily. “Andor is drunk.”

“Drunk?
Sir Andor?” That did not sound like the cultured young gentleman she had known
in Kinvale. “It was in a good cause.” Sagorn leaned against the wall and rubbed
his eyes. “Andor is drunk. Thinal is dazzled by his own importance and dizzy
from lack of sleep. Jalon, of course, would be totally useless in an escapade
such as this.” He shook his head. “And you and I’re both too old for such
nonsense. It is hopeless!”

“Rubbish!”
Kadolan said. “Listen! If that is a sortof-secret way out, then it may also be
a sort-of-secret way in, may it not? These djinns are all half crazy with
intrigue ... spies and double agents, coming to report? There may very well be
a doorman within earshot, waiting to let them in. Now you call Sir Andor ...
No?”

“It
will lead to swordplay. Even sober, Andor is only an amateur swordsman.”

“You
called him earlier.”

“Thinal
called him. He didn’t think. It will have to be Darad, whichever one of us
calls him.”

“Not
Darad!”

Darad
had killed a woman for half a word. Baled silence and angry glares.

“You
are the thinker, Doctor! Think!”

Sagorn
sighed. “Listen, Kade, Darad might be all right. Especially if you talk to him
about Rap! Darad likes Rap now.”

She
found that hard to believe. The faun had set his dog on Darad, and his tame
goblin, too. He had smashed chairs on Darad. But if it had to be Darad, it had
to be Darad.

“Very
well. Go ahead! I’ll risk it.”

Sagorn
gave her a disbelieving look. “Very well. Gods be with you, my dear.”

Impudence!

Then
the green clothes ballooned, and stitches ripped, and the giant was there.

Clenching
fists, she raised her head to see the scars and tattoos, the battered nose and an
enormous wolflike grin. “Good morning, Master Darad,” she said faintly.

An
earthquake of silent laughter shook his monstrous form. He leered. “And good
day to you, lady. Need my help now, do you?”

She
fell back a step. “I am truly sorry that I hurt you when you were in Krasnegar.
My loyalty to my niece, you understand-”

A
guttural chuckle stopped her. “Jotunn blood?”