The Rose of Sarifal (37 page)

Another gesture with her long, painted fingernails, and seven of the drow stood away from the others.

K
NIGHTS OF
L
LEWYRR

I
N THE COUNCIL CHAMBER AT
H
ARROWFAST
, S
UKA SAID
to Marabaldia, “I think we should get away from here. Captain Rurik has already escaped with all his Ffolk. He rode away while you were talking because there is no point to these negotiations. And without Rurik, this is not your fight.”

This was measured speech, for her. Inside she felt a certain urgency.

There was a circular open space at the bottom of the council chamber’s sloping well, a raised stone dais, and on top of it a long stone table. Suka stood by Marabaldia’s heavy chair, her head below the level of the table’s surface. Doubtless it was strewn with important papers, which were out of sight to her. “Let the knights of Llewyrr retake Karador. Let them put their lost princess on the throne. They will not welcome you there when it is done, or thank you for your help.”

The fomorian princess and Lord Ughoth had been speaking privately, their heads together across the table, their whispering voices inaudible. Suka felt like a child
at her friend’s knee, or perhaps a little dog jumping up and down. She heard her bark turn frantic. “We’ve got to leave,” she said.

Eladrin soldiers had come into the hall. They were nosing around the entrance. Suka saw Marabaldia’s hand come down—the princess, lately, had gotten into the habit of touching her, stroking her hair, which was soft and fine in comparison to her own. I swear to the gods I’ll bite her thumb, Suka thought. Then she ducked under the stone tabletop and crossed to where Lord Mindarion was sitting unacknowledged by the others, slumped back in his chair. His eyes were closed, and a yellow-haired eladrin woman sat with him, fussing over him, rubbing some kind of cream into his beardless cheek. Her name was Altaira, and she was his daughter, or granddaughter, or great-granddaughter.

“My lord,” said Suka in her least impudent and most servile tone, but the woman—clothed all in white and yet with embroidered patterns on her collar in rainbow-colored thread (gnomes’ work, Suka suggested to herself, gnome
slaves’
work, because these people were too lazy and spoiled to lift a gods-damned finger)—interrupted.

“Hush,” she said, in a tone both fragile and superior, “don’t disturb him. He is far away.”

I would so like to join him, Suka thought, flicking her dog bone stud against her front teeth, while at the same time glancing behind her at the soldiers talking together along the upper circle of the hall. “The shadow walker hurt him,” said Altaira, her hand fluttering over Mindarion’s fine, high, effeminate cheeks, which were
(it was true) ashen and gray, even in the light of the oil lanterns and the candles flickering behind their alabaster screens. “He has turned inward. He will linger like this for many years. He will not talk to us again, if I know anything.”

“Well, then, we’re done,” said Suka, this time to Marabaldia and Ughoth who had gotten up from their stone chairs to stand over her, expressions of indulgence on their enormous faces. “Princess,” she said, “please let us leave this place. We can go north on our own, to Cambrent Gap and then beyond, below Citadel Umbra—that’s the way, isn’t it, to your own kingdom?”

“Kingdom …” said Marabaldia, smiling at her prince. “I suppose you could call it that. But—”

“Please,” interrupted Suka. “I don’t think there’s time.” She glanced behind her, where Lord Askepel and a few of the others were talking with the soldiers, their faces grave and severe, and as easy to read as children’s primers. “We must go,” she said. “Please, come with me.”

Again she imagined Marabaldia might bring her hand down and run her fingers through her hair. Something had happened between the fomorian princess and her boyfriend. Something had changed in the last day, as a result of which Marabaldia had become less able to focus on the task at hand, and tended to treat Suka as if she were a child or a pet, scratching at her head, admiring the rosiness of her complexion and the delicacy of her porcelain skin, et cetera—screw that. If the fomorian was feeling so maternal now, maybe it had to do with her own change of circumstances. Her
distorted, bloodshot, golden eye beamed down like a searchlight, or like a fumbling, gathering hand that was trying to comfort the little gnome and calm her down. But Suka would not be consoled, because, objectively, they were completely reamed—she twisted under the descending palm and took off across the translucent tiles of the central dais, lit from below now that it was night. She ran up through the tiers of cushioned stone banquettes and statues of griffons and other beasts even more exotic and extinct, trying to reach the door before Lord Askepel forbade it.

Too late. Below them in the guardhouses under Harrowfast, a company of fomorian soldiers were doubtless drinking and playing knucklebones, bored to tears, together with an honor guard of cyclopses, which Lord Ughoth had brought up from the Underdark. Here in the council chamber no weapons were permitted. Six fomorian knights sat dozing among the seats, but now they roused themselves as a dozen or so armed eladrin came down the graded steps toward the stone table. Askepel was with them. Immediately Suka turned and, hands in pockets, sauntered down toward Marabaldia again, whistling the refrain of
Oh, Father Dear
as a kind of distress signal that she hoped the princess would recognize.

And sure enough, Marabaldia came to join her, and Ughoth came with Marabaldia, and the three of them watched uneasily as the eladrin stamped down, hands on their sword hilts, and some of them carrying heavy lances of the type known as giant-spits—a violation of
etiquette and the clear protocol of the council chamber. Ughoth raised his hand, and five of the fomorian guards retreated toward them down one of the empty side aisles, while the sixth (Suka was glad to see) stumbled upward toward the doors. They’d need the cyclopses, she guessed, before this was through.

Standing on the steps, where his head was not far below Ughoth’s, Askepel began speaking. Immediately he confirmed Suka’s fears. “Large sir and powerful madam, I bring you sour news, which could not fail to touch even a brute. Perhaps in your languages you do not easily possess such abstract concepts as treachery or even loss, because you have so little. I do not say this is your fault. But with my kind it is not like that, because every pebble of Synnoria is as costly as one of your jewels. Every moment of every day contains experiences and sensations you could not even recognize, and for this reason foul murder is a crime among us, which is something you might not instinctively understand. Let me explain. Not one hour ago, not one mile from this place, and yet within the sacred border of Synnoria, three of our kin were struck down and killed as they pursued their duties. Among them was the Marchlord Oemeril Talos–claere, my father’s sister’s son. Their perfumed blood was spilt upon the grass, yet even so my soldiers could detect another odor, or else a mix of odors: a Northlander and a gnome. The Northlander has already fled, which confirms his guilt. It only remains for you to surrender up this … person whom you have brought into our midst, to stand before the
high wardens of Synnoria and answer for her crimes. If you had the noses for it, you would be able to perceive, as I do now, the attar of my cousin’s blood above her own rank smell.”

Suka could see the eladrin’s delicate nostrils flare as she stepped backward to Marabaldia’s side. Not ten minutes before she had been irritated and frustrated at the giantess’s condescension, her increasing habit to treat the gnome as if she were a child or a toy. But now she reached up to grab hold of Marabaldia’s blue dress. She yanked importunately on the rich cloth, and then peered up into her friend’s noble face, its pale purple skin touched with an angry cast of red.

Marabaldia reached down to touch Suka’s shoulder, a comforting, encompassing gesture, while at the same time the membrane over her evil eye slid open, and the surface of the eye itself bulged from the plane of her flat cheek.

Askepel put up his hand. “You will not coerce me with your sorcery,” he said, and nothing more.

Whatever image Marabaldia had conjured to disarm him, the effect was instantaneous. He stood immobile, an expression of disgusted rage on his smooth face. The rest of the eladrin drew their swords, and some had carried double-bladed axes down the steps, along with the giant spits; a dozen or so knights of Llewyrr, in silver fish-scale armor, white capes, and spiked helmets. Ughoth lifted up his hands palm out, as if in a gesture of surrender, then drove his naked fist into the face of one of the eladrin and knocked the lance out of his grasp.
The others grabbed at him. Eleven feet tall, he looked like a man wrestling or playing with a knot of boys, buffeting them about their heads with slaps of his great hands. Even now he wasn’t trying to kill them.

The hall filled up with soldiers. Marabaldia had slipped Askepel’s sword out of its sheath. It looked slight as a poker in her big fist. Two fomorians had already fallen, hewn down on the steps before they could reach the dais. Their dark blood exploded out of them. At the top of the hall, a third was on his knees.

Suka kept one of her secret knives in the crease of each hand. Standing in back of him, for a moment she considered whether she should cut down Askepel as he stood helpless, cut him across his hamstrings—no, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do that again. Already she’d disgusted herself by what she’d done in Synnoria, the unnecessary foolishness that had started all this, and that now seemed likely to get them killed, regardless of how she punished Askepel for insulting her. It wasn’t as if he’d had no cause.

The three remaining guardsmen had come down to stand together with Ughoth and Marabaldia, and it was possible, Suka thought, that something could be done to save them all. She turned toward Lord Mindarion, still slumped in his chair, and the Lady Altaira stood beside him, a horrified expression on her face, her almond-shaped eyes wide with terror and distress. Suka climbed onto the tabletop and ran down to stand on the useless documents in front of the old lord. She kicked some of the parchments off of the marble surface then leaned
forward and grabbed hold of Mindarion’s long nose, and forced her fingernails into his nostrils—not to hurt him, but only to wake him. The lady scarcely glanced at what she did. She stood leaning on the tabletop, her yellow hair around her face. All around her there was chaos and fighting as the eladrin pushed down the steps, but Suka pushed her fingers into Mindarion’s nose until he came awake under her hands.

A puzzled frown knotted his white brow, and he opened his bright eyes, blinked, and sat up, a smile of happy recognition on his lips—she’d let go of his nose by this time, and squatted back on her heels.

“My small friend,” he murmured, “how I am happy to see your face. These others were boring me—” which was as far as he got before he realized something terrible was happening. “Stop!” he shouted, leaping from his chair.

Ughoth was wounded, his shoulders drenched in his blue blood, but he had gotten hold of two of the giant-spits, one in each hand, and with them he did deadly damage to his attackers, his yellow eye blazing fire. Marabaldia, also, had skewered several of the Llewyrr knights, though Askepel unfortunately (in Suka’s modest opinion) had escaped.

“Stop!”
shouted Mindarion again, as another of the unarmed fomorians went down. No one heard him or paid attention. But he lifted up his hand and grabbed the gnome’s shoulder, pulled her toward him, and told her to jump down and close the eyes of the sun, words which would have made no sense if Suka had not passed under
the table earlier and seen its etched and painted twenty-foot-long underside, in contrast to its smooth marble top. She did as she was told, and had to duck to see the pattern that ran along the narrow ceiling; constellations, individual stars, the phases of the moon, and at the far end the likeness of the sun, its rays inset with gold, its face a human face surrounded by shaggy yellow hair and a shaggy beard, its eyes wide and deranged. Suka jammed her fingers into them, and pulled down the clockwork metal lids, which shut with a click that was audible to her even in the noise of the assault.

One of the fomorians lay full length beside the dais, his purple face turned toward her, his lips wet with blood and distorted with death. He looked not so much like a creature who had ever been alive, but like a leather mask that had been painted to scare children at the solstice festival or the Feast of the Moon—Suka closed her eyes. She was without hope. All of this was her fault.

But then she felt some movement, and opened her eyes to see the dais underneath the table start to turn, and the whole circular bottom of the council hall of Harrowfast turn like a screw, and sink down along a sloping, cylindrical shaft—slowly at first, and then at an increasing speed. Supported on iron wheels, revolving along a greased iron rail, the entire stone structure made a screeching noise and threw up sparks as it slid out of sight, away from the ring of enraged knights and down into the darkness. Lord Mindarion stood by the spinning table as if directing the descent, Altaira by his side. Marabaldia and Ughoth, also, had
retreated to the table as it began to sink, and the two remaining fomorian guardsmen, all of them protected by the dark. As they slid down the long decline, they looked up to see the faces of the eladrin peering down at them. The air was full of dust and cobwebs and the screech of iron brakes.