Perilous Seas (39 page)

“Stubborn
idiot!” Inosolan muttered. “His own fault.”

Inosolan
had done very well, really. For months in the desert she had kept the sultan at
arm’s length without ever seeming to hurt his feelings or rouse false
hopes. That was no mean feat of balance. Now Kadolan was a little worried that
the relationship was starting to change in some way she had not defined. The
terrible events in Thume had shaken everybody. Azak had nearly died, Inosolan
had almost been ravished. Things had been different since then, attitudes
altered, values reassessed. Perhaps Ullacarn, as a return to civilization, had
helped the change. Azak in imp clothing had been a shock-certainly to Kadolan,
and probably to Inosolan. He had not been a barbarian any more.

It
might be better for everyone concerned if he did complete the rest of the journey
in chains, all the way to Hub. Inosolan could sit inside the carriage and that
dangerous young man could be strapped on the roof with the baggage.

Kadolan
rebuked herself for unworthy thoughts.

“Well,
this is true luxury,” she said. “Is your stateroom as magnificent
as this?”

“I
haven’t looked. “

Respectably
shod again, Kadolan pushed herself to her feet. “Then let’s go and
have a look now, and then go up and-” Inosolan swung around and glared at
her. “And have a nice time, I suppose?”

“Why
not?”

“Well,
it’s easy for you! I’m on my way to marry a goblin. I’ve been
captured by a warlock, and from the way he looked at me, the goblin may very
well be going to get me as secondhand goods. Azak’s down in the bilge,
and I hate ships, and I’m a lousy sailor-”

“And
you sound like a spoiled child. “

“And
I- What? You don’t get seasick!”

“Are
you seasick now? Is seasickness what is bothering you?”

Inosolan
made a snorting noise and stalked toward the door. And Kadolan felt a rush of
anger. “Answer the question! “ Inosolan stopped and spun around,
her mouth open in shock. “You are still behaving like a spoiled child,”
Kadolan said having gone so far, she would have to continue. “You are not
married to a goblin at the moment. You are not being importuned by any warlocks
that I can see. You are, in fact, about to enjoy a voyage in royal luxury on
the finest ship I have ever seen, across the Sea of Sorrows, an expanse of
water renowned for its fair weather and good sailing. You are likewise going to
continue on the journey of a lifetime, through some of the world’s finest
scenery and across half the Impire to Hub itself, where you will very likely be
granted royal honors and all the hospitality of the Imperial court. If you do
believe that you are going to be married to a goblin-and I personally find the
idea so absurd that I cannot take it seriously-then I suggest that you attempt
to appreciate the good things that are happening at the moment, instead of
making yourself miserable all the time brooding over a future that may never
happen. “

“Absurd,
you said?” Inosolan was pale with fury. “Absurd?”

“Absurd.
“ Kadolan sighed, wishing she had kept her annoyance safely bottled up. “I’ve
told you before. The principle of compromise is to find something, or someone
in this case, which . . . who ... is equally acceptable to both sides. A
goblin, I think, would be equally unacceptable to both sides. All four sides,
really: you, and the citizens, and the Impire, and--”“You didn’t
see that warlock-”

“No,
I didn’t, and I’rn not certain you did.”

Inosolan
drew a deep breath, but before the angry torrent could flow, Kadolan added, “He
might have been Rasha. “

“Rasha?
That’s crazy!”

“I
don’t see why it’s any crazier than what you say, though. A warlock
can change his appearance, but so can a sorceress. You met someone who upset
you. You claim you knew the voice, but I am sure his Omnipotence of the East is
not so stupid as to disguise his face and forget his voice. You say he cured
your headache, but that could have been a result of shock. In fact, the whole
episode may even have been a delusion promoted by Elkarath. You agree?”

Inosolan
shook her head, wide-eyed. “You’ll go mad it you start thinking
like that.”

“Exactly,”
Kadolan agreed. “That’s why I try not to. I’m sorry I was
rude, dear. Do let’s go and get some wind in our hair. You’re going
to die, you know.”

“I
am?” Inosolan gaped-and then suddenly smiled, still pale. “We all
are, you mean?”

“Exactly,
dear. Eventually. We just mustn’t brood about it. Now, let’s go.
After you . . . “

Whether
he looked like an elf or a faun, Rap was still much the same divided boy who
had hung around the harbor in Krasnegar whenever he hadn’t been hanging
around the stables. Almost nothing could ever thrill him more than actually
boarding a ship, and the Allena was a very splendid ship, a luxury
fourmaster-square-rigged on the two fore masts and lateen on the aft-and she
was the grandest, cleanest, most breathtakingly beautiful thing Rap had ever
seen. When possible, elves traveled as they did everything else, in style.

He
spared a few admiring glances for the bustling harbor of Noom, which had been
dark and deserted when he first arrived in town. He admired the variety and the
volume of the shipping, the cutters and dhows and junks and caravels and a
dozen other types, and he marveled at the hubbub and bustle of one of the great
ports of the Impire, gateway to the Dragon Sea and half of Pithmot. He was
impressed, almost embarrassed, by the comfort of the little stateroom assigned
to him on Allena. But mostly he just stood on deck and gazed longingly in every
direction at once.

He
wondered if passengers were allowed aloft. Unless someone chained him down, he
was going to explore Allena from stem to stem and keel to royals as soon as she
sailed. Of course he could talk anyone into anything now, and the temptation to
use mastery was going to be irresistible in this case, however much his
conscience might grumble. Yet the expression on Gathmor’s still-mangled
face showed that he was not going to sit in his cabin and knit, either. Likely
all Rap need do was stay close to the sailor, and he’d find a way.

Playful
white clouds scudded across a wondrous blue afternoon. The tide was running,
the wind rising as evening approached. Seabirds shrieked among the masts and
rigging, tangs of tar and fish mingling with the heartrending smell of the
eternal sea itself. Jotnar and imps and trolls and even a few elves jostled
along the dockside; porters trotted up and down the gangplank, loading the last
few stores from the bakeries and markets of Noom. The crew was almost ready to
cast off. Rap was on his way to Ilrane, Lith’rian, and-please Gods!-to
Inos. Yet even that thrill could barely compete with the sheer joy and
excitement of just boarding a great ship.

“Ten
knots in this wind or I’m an elf,” Gathmor muttered. “Then
you’ll have to dress like one,” Rap said.

He
himself was dressed like an elf and trying not to notice. Krasnegarians
expected protection from cold in winter and gnats in summer; they despised
short pants and sleeveless shirts. Rap scowled down at the multihued arms on
the rail before him. Whoever heard of an elf with scrapes and bruises? The
conical absurdity on his head was even sillier than the forester cap Ishist had
given him-and a lace collar! Even if he was standard gold all over, he still
would not suit magenta and peach. With his arms and face and legs bearing
bright rainbow reminders of the brawl in the Enchanted Glade and even more of
the jailers’ persuasions, he was not a likely elf at all, and certainly
not a beautiful one.

Quip’
was. He was much more interested in his new outfit than he was in the view from
the deck. The first real clothes he had ever owned, he said, and he was
overcome by their glory. He’d chosen them himself: turquoise buskins
cross-laced in silver, shorts and blouse in chrome red and sulfur yellow, with
floral overlay in seed pearls and cornflower blue stitchery. He had lace
everywhere, even on his pants, and his cap kept blowing off because of its
oversize ostrich plume, which was green.

And
yet, amazingly, it all very nearly worked. Without the green feather, it might
have passed. At least five minutes had gone by since he’d asked Rap if he
liked the effect-really liked it-so the question was about due again. Quip’
was the most glorious thing in port at the moment, and yet still the most
insecure.

A
little way aft stood a group of another six brightly clad passengers. Whatever
the traditions said, the elvish community of Noom was not going to gamble its
entire wealth on Apprentice Quip’rian. He was Nearest Kinsman and
therefore official escort, but someone reliable must keep an eye on him. The
leaders seemed to be Mistress Fern’soon, director of the city art
gallery-who looked about twenty and was a grandmother-and Sir Thoalin’fen,
who was chief choreographer for the South Pithmot Ballet and had danced for the
imperor’s grandmother in his youth. His face sagged slightly over missing
teeth and a milky sheen dulled the opal fires of his eyes, but elvish skin
never wrinkled, elvish hair never turned from spun gold to silver. A stooped or
pot-bellied elf was unthinkable. Not fair, Rap thought. One day Thoalin’
would drop dead of sheer old age, and he would still look no older than Rap,
the real Rap.

Lord
Phiel’ had sent his warmest wishes, but etiquette did not allow him to be
present, and he must return to Hub anyway, to prepare for the celebrations of
the imperor’s birthday.

The
legionaries pacing the quay would be making sure that the agreement was being
honored. Likely the lictor had a man or two on board as well.

A
grand landau drew up alongside, bearing a strikingly beautiful and obviously
wealthy lady, so engrossed in a passionate farewell to her gentleman companion
that she had not realized she could be seen from the deck. When the tearful
embrace ended, Rap saw to his astonishment that the man in question was Andor.

What
could possibly have brought him?

Yet
Andor it was, and he strolled gracefully up the gangplank, following his sea
chest. Andor’s hose would never wrinkle, no breeze ever dare ruffle his
hair. Without a glance at Rap, he headed for the group of elvish worthies.

Ten
minutes later, though, the lovely but slightly bewildered Fem’soon found
herself presenting Sir Andor to Master Rap’rian and his ... er, friends.
Formal courtesies were exchanged,

Andor
trying to conceal his distaste at the welts, puffy eyes, and swollen lips.

And
as he allowed Fem’soon to draw him away to better company, he muttered
out of the comer of his mouth, “Later, in my cabin. Sagorn has news for
you.”

Even
that intriguing word could not distract Rap from the excitement of the imminent
departure. He went back to watching the preparations.

“She’s
a beauty,” Gathmor muttered, and he was not studying women.

“Yes,
Cap’n, she’s all that.”

“No
disrespect to a fine ship, lad, but she even outclasses Stormdancer. “ He
was comparing a racehorse and a donkey, but then his own admission upset him.
He turned his face away, as if to hide tears from a seer.

“Infernal
feather!” Quip’rian grumbled as the wind snatched his cap yet
again. “Should I have chosen a smaller plume, do you think, sir? “

“No.
That one suits you,” Rap said. “It adds dash!”

“Oh,
do you think so? Really think so?” The gold of Quip’s cheeks turned
coppery.

“This
beats clearing plates, does it not? It doesn’t?”

Quip’
swallowed hard. “I had to go on the harbor ferry once. “

“And?”

He
shuddered. “You’ve never been on a boat before?”

“Oh,
yes. And ships.”

Quip’
gave him a tortured, puzzled glance. “You don’t get sick, sir?”

“Quip’!”
Rap protested. “I keep telling you-stop calling me `sir’! I’m
not much older than you are.”

“But
you’re so much more . . . worldly! Experienced. Manly. “

“You’ll
get there soon enough. And no, I never get seasick. “

“Really?
I thought elves always did. I did. Horribly.”

In
the harbor? “It’s all inside your head,” Rap said airily.
Then he began to wonder how deeply his own head had been penetrated by Ishist’s
magic. A sorcerer who enjoyed practical jokes might find seasickness a real
belly laugh.

The
gangplanks were being hauled in. The other elves were heading for their cabins.
Quip’s edginess was increasing rapidly.

“I
may not be able to carry out my escort duties if I get seasick, sir-I-mean-Rap’.”

Rap
tried his encouraging smile. Could even occult mastery overcome seasickness? “Don’t
worry about it. It’s only a formality. I’m not going to jump
overboard.”

The
idea of jumping overboard made Quip’ shudder and alloyed his golden face
with silver. “You’re frightfully brave!”

“No,
I’m not.”

“But
you’re going to Lith’rian! A warlock! He may cut off your head. “

“I
don’t think he will,” Rap said with all the confidence he could
display, wishing he could use occult mastery to convince himself as well as he
could others.

“Then
you really want a war? The Clan’rians against the Clan’nilths? And
of course all the allied clans will come in, or most of--”

“I
hope not that, either! I’m sure a warlock can find a way around the
problem, Quip’. I’ve nothing against Phiel’nilth. I chose him
by pure chance, or maybe by good luck. I’ve nothing against his clan. I
just need to see Warlock Lith’rian very urgently, that’s all. I was
told that this was the easiest, quickest way to do so. “

The
elf’s big opal eyes seemed to grow even larger, flickering amethyst and
pearl. “But why?” he whispered.

Rap
wanted to watch the cables being cast off, but he decided he was going to have
to talk at the same time, to give his Nearest Kinsman some sort of explanation.
He deserved it, for Rap’s actions had grossly disrupted his humdrum,
insignificant existence. Some people were not made to hear the trumpets. Quip’rian
would always be a lapdog, never a wolfhound.