The Stricken Field (34 page)

If anyone was going to be set ashore as a recruiting agent in Sysanasso, it would have to be Rap himself, and he did not want that. Although he was by far the weakest of the many sorcerers aboard, he was the only one who could keep the peace between the two ill-assorted groups. So far both had deferred to him. That situation might not last, but he was sure they would fall out very quickly if he departed. He also hated the thought of being left behind while the others pursued the war without him. It was his war, Evil take it! To ignore Sysanasso as a source of recruits was unthinkable; to send a troll or anthropophagus in his place was even more so.

"You need an agent in Sysanasso?" Jalon muttered sleepily. "Thinking about Sagorn, maybe?"

"Would he?"

"No. Beneath his dignity. Also boring."

Which is what Rap had already concluded. Indeed, he had discarded all of the sequential gang for the job. Jalon was unassertive and totally impractical. Andor would be effective if he chose to be, but could not be trusted. Thinal was even less reliable than his brother, and would not be interested Darad was willing, but a moron. The gang of five had a man for almost any situation except that one. A troll clambered out of the hatch and peered around, his huge form swathed in a length of sail to keep the sun off. Even jotunn garments would not fit trolls.

On the face of it, trolls and anthropophagi were the most improbable crew any ship could ever have. As almost everyone aboard was a sorcerer, Dreadnaught had no problem. A mere adept could learn any skill in minutes, and sorcerers did not even need lessons.

"Forget Sysanasso," Jalon said. "Ever been there?" "Once, very briefly."

"You're looking for mundane authorities, you said. Fauns don't have any."

"They do so!" Rap retorted. "They have principalities galore. They even have some republics."

"But nobody pays any attention to any of them. Fauns do whatever they please. I know-I've been there. Well, Andor has. You'll just be shoveling water in Sysanasso."

Two more trolls emerged from belowdecks. The sun had not set yet. Then two more ... what was disturbing them? Rap wondered briefly about that, and then went back to considering Jalon's suggestion. Forget Sysanasso? It was certainly a tempting thought. But then where did he take his crazy army? Even if Lith'rian remained at large somewhere in Ilrane, the warlock of the south would not appreciate an invasion by a force of assorted trolls and cannibals. Rap had "Thume" tattooed on his arm, but that idea seemed very improbable in the cold light of day ... the warm light of a summer evening, then. Thume was a dream. He could forget about Thume.

He might grow old in this war and achieve nothing. Tik Tok came wandering aft, his bone kilt clinking. He was frowning. With his tattoos, the bone in his nose, and his pointed teeth, his frowns were enough to curdle arteries. "Something amiss?" Rap asked.

The savage shrugged his brown shoulders and wiggled the bone in his nose. "Just a vague feeling of reprehension. You feel nothing wrong?"

Rap checked the ambience. "No."

"Others feel it, also, a sense of forebearing." He leaned on the rail and scowled northward.

Jalon sat up and yawned. "Ready to teach me more drumming?" He was fascinated by the anthropophagi's complex rhythms. They were unlike anything else in Pandemia, he claimed. He probably knew more about the music of Pandemia than anyone else did, so no one argued.

Tik Tok turned to look him over thoughtfully, and Rap laughed.

"He'd rather teach you cooking-the inside story."

The deck was becoming crowded now. Almost everyone aboard was in sight, and most of them were staring to the northeast. Rap's skin prickled. Again he sniffed the ambience. He was the least powerful sorcerer of them all. He ought to be the last to understand. But perhaps that brooding Jalon had detected in him had been a premonition?

There was something! He sniffed again-peered, listened, whatever ... Something faint but tantalizingly familiar?

A sudden ripple in the mainsail brought his attention back to his duties. He spun the wheel. Then a bestial howl from Thrugg distracted him.

"Dragons!" Grunth roared from the bow. "The dragons are rising!"

Jalon, the only mundane aboard, scrambled to his feet and stared at the horizon, but of course there was nothing to be seer.. Rap found himself clenching hands on the spokes and drawing deep breaths, fighting horror. Yes! Now he recognized that sinister, alien flavor, the occult spoor of dragons. He had almost been charred by a dragon once.

All over the ship, troll and anthropophagus stared at one another in dismay.

"South?" Jalon demanded, scowling. "Is Lith'rian starting your war, King Rap?"

"Can't say. But the witch is right. The dragons are rising."

Rap doubted Lith'rian was responsible-not unless he was cornered and desperate. For him to raise the dragons against the Covin would be suicide. He would reveal his own location and find the worms turned on him by the greater power. Far more likely, Zinixo had preempted South's prerogative and was stealing the dragons for some purpose of his own.

The usurper already controlled the world. Why did he need dragons?

The westward roll of night across Pandemia had already veiled Hub in darkness. The city was still under siege by its own people, with refugees filling every temple, huddling under every bridge and gateway. Starvation and pestilence were taking a grim toll, and the summer had barely started. The XXth Legion had been pulled back into the capital in a vain attempt to keep order, but the food riots continued to spread. Here and there burning buildings fountained sparks to the black sky.

Light still blazed in the great houses of the rich. The aristocracy knew where safety lay, and this year would not flee the summer heat of the capital for the comfort of country dwellings. They grumbled about the price of food and the expense of maintaining private armies to protect them, but they thrived.

Music drifted out from the high windows of the Ishipole mansion. A mere war would not deter the old senator from celebrating her birthday with one of her sumptuous balls. Official mourning for Emshandar had not yet ended, but Ishipole was a law unto herself. She had brazenly invited everyone of consequence and they had all come, starved for their accustomed gaiety. The imperor had promised to attend, thus putting a stamp of propriety on the occasion and guaranteeing that it would be an uproarious success.

Lord Umpily had never been much of a dancer. He spent most of the evening near the buffet, sampling every dish in the celebrated Ishipole cuisine and gossiping to his heart's content. The talk was mostly inconsequential scandalpillage and rape were indecorous topics for social conversation-yet he could sense the brittle nerves under the paint and glitter. Almost every man he spoke to would put a small feeler eventually-had he heard any reliable news? Always he would sigh quietly and confess that he had not.

The rumors told of such widespread destruction that no one could believe them any more.

Chandeliers glittered, orchestras serenaded, and death was denied. Outside, the wretched thousands huddled. Somewhere in Pithmot, the goblin horde continued its unspeakable rampage.

Umpily completed a mild verbal sparring match with elderly Marquise Affaladi, who was accompanied this evening by yet another in her ongoing collection of stalwart Hussars, this one even younger and larger than most of his many predecessors. He did not seem capable of speaking in complete sentences, but that would not be a necessary part of his duties.

Umpily headed back to the buffet in search of another taste of the peppered eels, or possibly the sumptuous lark tongue pate, or--

"My lord?"

He stopped, aghast. She was incredibly beautiful, a vision in nacreous silk and a blizzard of diamonds. Her daringly low gown, her gems, her coiffure ... She outdid every woman he had seen in the hall. Her face and figure would move mountains.

He had heard no announcement, no anthem-but the visit was unofficial, of course. He doubled over in the deepest bow he could manage. "Your Majesty!"

Eshiala laughed gaily as she bobbed her head in acknowledgement. "It has been a long time, my lord!"

"Er . . ." Suddenly he was speechless. When had he last seen the impress-the genuine impress?

"Taken any interesting boat trips recently, Umpy?" Umpily said, "Awrk!" He felt his face blossom as red as any beetroot ever grown. Oh, what a fool he had been to be so deceived by the faun and the evil warlock!

The impress laughed again at his anguish. She seized his hand. "Come! Shandie is blathering to a lot of stuffy soldiers and senators. Let's you and me dance!"

He had not danced in years. He must not refuse an imperial command. Gibbering and sweating in panic, he let himself be led to the floor through a forest of astonished faces. He had no idea what music was being played or what the correct steps were. He was going to make an enormous fool of himself in front of the entire court. From the gleam in those lovely eyes, Eshiala knew that. She turned to him expectantly. He glanced wildly around to see what the correct hold was--

The orchestra wailed into dissonance and stopped. The dancers stilled in an angry murmur.

Then the imperor came into view over the crowd, holding up his hands for silence. He must be standing on a table. He was beaming that familiar but so-rare smile that brightened his nondescript features like summer sunshine on a rocky mountain.

"Eminences, Excellencies ... and all the rest of you!" He laughed, and everyone laughed, bewildered.

Dukes and lesser nobility bristled at the insult. Umpily could hear the insidious thought throbbing through the hall: His grandfather never used to behave like this!

"I have some news! Good news!" A cheer.

"Tonight I met with the wardens . . ." A tumultuous cheer!

Umpily joined in, although his head was suddenly spinning. Had not the Four been deposed? The Almighty reigned in their place! What was Shandie playing at?

He was still grinning and nodding, waiting for a chance to be heard. Again he raised both arms, and the noise thinned.

"The goblins have been brought to bay at last! ... Warlock Olybino has given me his word ... Tomorrow they die!"

Chaos.

The impress was frowning darkly, tapping her fan against her rosebud lips. Umpily felt quite certain what that frown meant-she had not been informed in advance of the announcement and perhaps not of the news itself. As if to confirm his suspicion, she plunged off through the crowd without a word, heading toward the imperor, although he had vanished down into the throng. Voices were rising in the Imperial anthem, but the cheering was drowning it out.

Limp with relief that he had been spared humiliation on the dance floor, Umpily peered around to locate the nearest source of alcohol. Everyone else had had the same idea. He directed his shaky steps back to the buffet instead, thinking that a mouthful of something sweet might settle him a little. He almost ran down a very large elderly lady in blue satin. He muttered an apology--

Countess Eigaze!

The last time he had seen her she had been wrapped in a warm cloak on a tatty old ferryboat in a snowstorm on Cenmere. Six months ago.

For a moment that seemed to last a whole winter, they stared at each other. She had aged years. Her hair had turned to silver; her face sagged like hot wax.

She inclined her head, chins bulging. She murmured, "Lord Umpily," almost inaudibly.

"My lady!" At last, he bowed, but he never took his eyes off hers.

"Good news, is it not?" she said, a little louder. "About the goblins?"

"Very, my lady." Still they stared.

The air reeked with unasked questions: How do you feel now about that delusion we shared? What did you tell Shandie when you came to your senses? Do you have bad dreams, much?

The countess shrugged her pillow shoulders. "Gods save the imperor." She almost made it sound like a question. "Amen!"

She nodded again, grimly, and turned away.

For any guest to leave while the imperor was present would be an act of gross disrespect.

A little air would be permissible in case of faintness, though. Umpily reeled out through the great doors, past the petrified Praetorian Guardsmen standing guard. The big antechamber was just as bright and hot as the hall, although the roar of voices behind him faded a little. He was moving in a daze. His head pounded as if he was being suffocated. Why had Shandie invoked the name of the Four, when he himself had told Umpily that they had been deposed-that they were, and always had been, servants of the Evil?

The men's room!

He pushed through the door. As it closed, the din died away into a subterranean mutter. There was no one else present. He sank down on a chintz sofa and tried to relax, to think, to stop himself shaking. He did not understand!

He could never speak to anyone of the Almighty, but Shandie could. He had done so-he had told the truth to Umpily. Was it possible he also was limited, that he could not tell the world at large?

It still made no sense. If the legions scored a significant triumph in the promised battle, then why in the Gods' names give the credit to the evil Warlock Olybino, warden of the east?

The Almighty ruled now, did he not?

Noise billowed briefly as the door opened at his back. Still, it was certainly good news that the goblins had been cornered at last. The atrocity stories drifting in from Pithmot ...

There was a sword in front of his eyes.

With a startled yelp, Umpily cowered back in the sofa. Two Praetorians stood before him. They were large, intimidating young men. They were staring at him with very cold eyes; and one of them had his sword out.

Had his sword at Umpily's throat.

"You will come with us, my lord," the other said. "If you give us any trouble, you will die."

Praetorian guardsmen did not draw their swords when arresting unarmed fat old men-Umpily knew that from experience. As he tottered to the door, he realized that this was no orthodox arrest. If the imperor wanted him, he had only to ask. If the impress was still intent on that dance, she might just possibly send a guardsman instead of a footman, but no sword would be drawn unless he resisted. There was something very far wrong here. He paused, holding the handle. The men were right behind him.