The Stricken Field (13 page)

Which did not mean they might not be found yet. Day and night, occult vision searched the trees. In the crazy metaphorical plane of the ambience, Rap could see those eyes, hear those ears. He sensed pillars of light or low crooning of voices, and sometimes he thought they were within yards of him. As far as sorcery went, other people were a much more effective cover than trees. A city would be much safer than a jungle.

Which meant he had to do this the hard way. The most insignificant use of magic now might be detected. He had not dared even unroll the magic scrolls in a week.

He thought briefly of Acopulo sitting at ease on a ship. He wondered if his own favorite armchair before the fire in Krasnegar now held the imperor, sprawling back in comfort, chatting to Inos, while Signifer Ylo smothered himself in rustic jotunn maidens belowstairs. He wondered what Warlock Raspnex was up to.

And what he himself was up to. Day and night, something haunted the back of Rap's mind, some brilliant idea that had come to him, some time, some place, and now evaded all efforts of memory to snare it. Something important. Men had gone mad over less ...

Shrubbery crackled and swished overhead. He looked up and caught a cataract full in the face. He blinked and shouted warnings as a huge bare foot appeared beside his left hand. The undergrowth roiled briefly; the owner of the foot came slithering down to his level in a shower of water and leaves. He caught glimpses of a naked, parchmentcolored body, and then Norp's face was level with his. She grinned, displaying enormous teeth and a mouth full of half-chewed leaves.

Male trolls were bad enough. The females were even uglier, possibly because they lacked beards. Thrugg's face was acceptable as an animal muzzle, but a hairless troll was a grotesque parody of what a human being should look like. Norp was only a child, younger than Kadie, and yet she outweighed Rap himself. She was hideous, and a nice kid.

She grunted a question through a mouthful of vegetation. A troll's idea of a snack was to rip off a branch and eat it whole-twigs, bark, and all. He deciphered: "Resting?"

"Admiring the scenery." It was difficult to think under the rain's constant hammering.

Another series of leafy mumbles translated to: "This is a bad part, and it gets worse."

How did she know that? Neither Norp nor Urg had any occult powers; neither had ever come this way before, and yet they seemed to understand the landscape by instinct. Thrugg had gone on ahead. Urg was helping Darad bring up the rear. All three trolls had long since discarded their slave clothes. The sun never shone in this rain-soaked land, and their doughy hides were impervious to thorns and insects. Rap thought he had lost about a quarter of his own skin and was still losing it faster than he could grow it back.

"Just unhook that strap for me, then, would you?" He braced himself to try again. Burying his face in the soggy moss, he stretched out as far as he could to his right. He found a tangle of roots and grasped it with frozen fingers. He tugged, and this time it seemed firm enough. He persuaded his left hand to let go. The cliff was not quite vertical, after all. Had it not been so thickly overgrown, he would have called it a waterfall. Then he brought his left foot closer. He had very little skin left on his left foot. He found a purchase, moved his right leg, and everything seemed to let go at the same instant. He yelled in terror as he began to slide.

Norp grabbed for him, and caught the satchel strap. For a moment she took his whole weight as he dangled over the void. Then the strap broke.

Her reflexes were astonishing. A great paw snatched his shoulder in midair and held him bodily until he found better handholds. His heart thundered.

"Thanks!" he gasped. "Good work!" "You want ... me carry you?"

"Oh, I think I'll manage. But that was a nice rescue. I thought I'd gone that time!"

She beamed with childish pleasure.

Rap felt rather proud himself, for he had refrained from using sorcery in that little episode. Nevertheless, it had lost him about half his pants, and the satchel. It was long gone downstream now, scrolls and gold and all. A couple of weeks of this, Thrugg said, would bring them to his mother's place. Fortunately, Rap had always believed in traveling light, but he wished now he had headed for Zark and sent old Acopulo to handle the troll end of the business.

Star of the Morning had made an easy trip from Malfin to Coopli-easy for late winter, that was. She was a small cargo ship with little room for passengers, but jotunn-built and more seaworthy than most; so her master had assured Acopulo. A lucky vessel, also, he had insisted. Two days out of Coopli, she had run out of good fortune.

At first Acopulo was too ill to mind. He considered it unfair that he always needed three or four days to gain his sea legs, only to lose them again after a few hours in port, but that was how the Gods had arranged the matter. He suspected that They disapproved of imps afloat on principle. He also suspected that he was about to die, but then he always thought that on a ship. The more violent motion added by the storm could do nothing to make him more miserable.

As his faculties began to return, however, he realized that he had never seen a cabin tilt to and fro at quite such remarkable angles. Nor had he ever heard a ship making quite such loud groaning noises. The occasional shuddering motion was new to him, too.

Eventually he dragged himself out of his stupor and vowed to go up on deck and see. Being a cautious man, he sat on the floor to dress, as standing erect was obviously out of the question. Had he tried to dress in his bunk he would certainly have fallen out. Then he set off on hands and knees.

At the top of the steps he stood up and tried the door. It was totally immovable. He had a sudden panicky thought that he might be locked in. The ship heeled abruptly, the door flew open, and he went flying out into madness. Wind and water together bowled him over, sent him hurtling across the deck in a heap, and slammed him into the side. For a moment he was convinced he had been washed overboard, for he was completely submerged. Then the water drained away, the ship tipped at another angle, and he began to slide. Another wave engulfed him, rolled him. Something grabbed his collar, transferred its grip to his arm, hauled him upright, and wrapped rope around him with a deft motion.

Shivering, choking, and blinking, he registered that he was bound to a mast, together with a large wet jotunn.

"Getting a little fresh air, Father?"

Acopulo made incoherent noises, remembered that he was supposedly a priest these days, and shouted, "Thank you, my son."

"Need a line if you want to stay up here, Father," the man boomed cheerfully.

A huge green wave came frothing over the side and buried the men to their waists-more like chest-deep in Acopulo's case. It swept his feet away, and the big sailor steadied him. Then it departed.

God of Mercy!

There was nothing to see but grayness. After a moment he decided that fog and twilight were merely solid rain. It was hard to tell where the sea ended and the air began, apart from a few frothy wave-tops like roofs all around. Star of Morning tilted again and seemed to surge straight up. "Where are we?" he screamed.

"See those rocks yonder?" The jotunn pointed a long arm. "No. I can't see a thing."

"Landlubber eyes!"

The ship plunged downward. Another wave came roaring across the deck, interrupting the conversation.

"Did you see the lights, then?" the jotunn yelled in Acopulo's ear. He was young and apparently enjoying himself.

"No."

"Pity. Real pretty sight, dragons." Acopoulo screamed, "Dragons?"

"We're about two cablelengths off Dragon Reach. Here, we're going up again. Now look."

Rain and spume battered Acopulo's eyes, and he saw nothing. "We're in danger?"

"Well, they don't fly over water, usually. Course we're getting awful close. They can sense the iron in the ship. Thazz what brought 'em. 'Spect that's why they're blowing so much fire."

How far was a cablelength? Not very far, Acopulo thought. And dragons, while they ravened after any metal, were especially drawn to gold. What had brought them, he suspected, was the heavy moneybelt around his own waist.

"What's going to happen?" he shouted in the next momentary lull.

"I dunno," the youngster said. He shrugged, and the resulting tightening of the binding almost cut Acopulo in half. "She's dragging her anchors, so we'll likely hit the rocks soon. She'll break up quick in this sea. If not, then we'll go aground when the tide ebbs, and the dragons'll get us. "

Acopulo looked up in horror at the cheerful grin. "Aren't you frightened?"

"No." The sailor pondered for a moment and then added, "If I warn't just a dumb jotunn I might be, I s'pose." This sudden insight seemed to wont' him more than the dragons themselves.

"I think I want to go back to my cabin." "Good idea. I'll help you. And, Father?..." "Yes?"

The lad looked around as if to make sure that no one was listening and said apologetically, "Pray a bit when you get there, will you?"

Doubt and sorrow:

Through the night of doubt and sorrow
Onward goes the pilgrim band,
Singing songs of expectation,
Marching to the Promised Land.

— B. S. Ingemann, Igjennem Nat og Trcengsel, translated by S. Baring-Gould

Woggle lay on the Great West Way, four days' ride from Hub. It was a nondescript place, famous only for the Warlock's Rest, reputed to be the best post inn in the Impire. It offered well-stocked stables, a famous cuisine, luxurious bedchambers, and a wide variety of services to go with them. No one knew why Woggle should be so favored, although there was a theory that outbound wealthy travelers often needed a break after four days' travel. If they did, then the Warlock's Rest could pander to all their wants. It was even rumored to possess a fair library.

Books were not uppermost on Ylo's mind as he wandered into the premier dining room. Wenches were. The sun had not yet set, but he had decided to treat himself to an early night for once. The king of Krasnegar had reported taking seven weeks to ride from Kinvale to Hub, but he had done it in less than four.

Almost. He would still need a couple of days to reach the capital, were he going there, and he had not quite reached Kinvale before running into the goblin problem. So add another week-he had still set a pace that the Imperial post would be hard put to equal. He was pleased with himself, and utterly determined never to try it again.

He accepted a table by the window and demanded attendance by the wine waiter. The Gods knew he had earned a little civilized decadence! In the sleepy red tinge of a spring evening, the gardens were afire with golden daffodils. Of course! The preflecting pool had prophesied that Eshiala would be his among the daffodils.

A buxom damsel shimmered by, smiling hopefully. He considered her thoughtfully and then shook his head. She departed with a pout. A decrepit old wine waiter came tottering over in her place. He beamed at Ylo's extravagant request for a flagon of Valdolaine, and must have passed word quickly backstage, for the next charmer to float into Ylo's field of view could not have been a day over fifteen. This time he was seriously tempted to nod, but again he declined. These were the professionals. He would find an amateur just as good and get what he wanted for free.

He picked up the menu and then laid it down again, letting his eyes wander over the big room. It was early yet, with few diners in attendance. On the way in he had observed quite a few soldiers and a sizable number of couriers. He thought he had detected an air of concern, a gravity unsuited to such surroundings. His breakneck progress had long since outrun the news of the goblin invasion, of course, at least as far as the civilian population was concerned. The government and the army must be aware of it, and the secret could not be kept very long. Wheels would be spinning madly. He had noted a substantial increase in the postal traffic going by him on the road in the last week; the choice of mounts had deteriorated. It could be only a matter of days now before the imperor broke the news to the Senate, and then the dam would burst with a vengeance. Travel would become almost impossible as the panic took hold. He had cut it very fine.

The wine arrived, deliciously cool at this time of year. Ice houses were rarely effective past early summer in Hub. One more day in the saddle would bring him to Yewdark. And then what? Possibly the wicked had located the impress, of course, and stolen her away. He had no way of knowing except to go and see. The imperor who would make the dread announcement in the Rotunda would not be Shandie, although everyone would assume he was. Zinixo and his Covin knew better, and they knew about the goblins, but only Ylo himself knew the knot the Gods had tied with those two threads.

He was still surprised how much he mourned Shandie-a fine soldier who would have made a great imperor. He had been an inspiring mentor for Ylo, and in those later weeks on the road their relationship had mellowed into something very close to friendship. That had been another ironic twist of fate, because neither of them had been the sort of man who opened his heart to another. Indeed, that had been an alarming development, and it might have led to serious complications. Ylo suspected that by Rivermead he had been having genuine scruples about seducing Eshiala-why else had he procrastinated so long?

No matter now. The Gods had rolled Their dice, the goblins' arrows had chosen one of the two fugitives, and the other had escaped. Pray that Shandie had died at once!

Again Ylo reached for the menu. Again he looked away, this time to stare out at the twilight and the daffodils. For some strange reason he kept thinking of the king of Krasnegar, that cryptic, practical, self-sufficient faun. With his narrow, rustic morality, he had disapproved of Ylo's intentions. What would he say now? Would he not agree that a girl so young who had already seen so much tragedy in her life was deserving of a little joy? She was a sleeping princess awaiting the true lover's kiss to awaken her; a butterfly still locked in the cocoon and in need of liberation.

He could awaken, he could liberate. Her release would be his glad duty.

Married women were usually easier, being less afraid of accidents. The unmarried were more sporting, more of a challenge. He had no experience with freshly bereaved widows. In this case, he must begin by breaking the news of her widowhood. That would make things tricky. Eshiala did not seriously love her husband, of course, but she would expect to mourn him. She might feel so guilty at not being heartbroken that she would convince herself she was. No matter how genuine-and they would be genuine-his offers of consolation might be declined at first. He had never met quite this situation before.

It would take time to wear down her defenses, at least a week. Not much longer, though, because the daffodils were already past their best, and he had an occult promise on that.

But it would take time.

Which was the main reason he had decided to have an early night-he was horny as a herd of giraffes, and urgency always blunted finesse.

"There you are, darling!" said a seductive voice. A slender hand came to rest on his shoulder.

He looked up inquiringly. Oh, yes! Delicious. "Darling?" "I beg your pardon, my lord! I mistook you for someone else."

Ylo clasped her hand and rose smoothly to his feet. "You found the right man for your needs!" He turned on his handsomest smile.

The next day a spring storm came roaring in off Cenmere to rattle the casements of Yewdark.

The following morning the weather was even worse, stripping all the petals off the daffodils.

By midafternoon the God of Spring had repented of Their juvenile tantrum. The rain stopped, the wind dropped, and the clouds rolled away to uncover the sun. That evening Eshiala saw swallows swooping over the gables, the first outriders of summer. Tulips were coming into bloom, but the daffodils had definitely gone.

Dinner was a quiet affair, as always, although the Great Hall would have seated hundreds. Proconsul Ionfeu presided-bent and silver-haired, an Imperial aristocrat in the finest tradition, a truly gentle gentleman. Tonight he talked of noteworthy elvish poets he had. met in his time, quoting their more memorable lines.

His wife was fat and apparently as scatter-brained as the hares that danced their mad spring rituals in the meadow outside. Not so!-her wits were much sharper than she normally allowed them to seem, and a large heart beat within her copious bosom. Three months ago Countess Eigaze had taken a very fragile impress into her care and cherished her with affection, concern, and good common sense. Eshiala had developed an enormous respect for Countess Eigaze, and real gratitude.

Centurion Hardgraa was his normal gruff self, perpetually uncomfortable in such exalted company. In that respect he had Eshiala's most sincere sympathy. He contributed little to the conversation, but he listened and she knew that he understood. He was as fanatical as the count, after his fashion, but his loyalty was to Shandie and Shandie's heir, not to the Impire itself.

Maya was asleep upstairs, tended by a nursemaid.

And the impress? The grocer's daughter? Here she was merely the wife of the fictitious Lord Eshern, but she suspected that even the servants knew she was both more and less than that. She was an exile, an outlaw, a fraud, but yet also a much healthier, happier woman than she had been at court. Of them all, only she was totally happy at Yewdark.

Three months at Yewdark? Nearer four! Where had the time gone? And the daffodils gone, also! Ever since the first green buds had opened their golden hearts, Eshiala had been haunted by thoughts of Ylo and the prophecy he claimed to have seen in the preflecting pool. Now the moment had passed. Did that mean she had another year to wait, or had the prophecy been disproved? Or else that dark-eyed libertine had been lying his head off to her, which was far more likely.

"May I suggest that we move over to the fireplace for coffee?" the count inquired. Receiving no argument, he ordered candles and the coffee. The sun was just setting. The fire smoldered, an unnecessary token. In a few more weeks the evenings would be warm enough for sitting outdoors.

As she settled in her favorite chair by the fieldstone hearth, Eshiala saw that more than coffee was brewing. The count was distracted, and even Eigaze showed less than her usual good humor. If the centurion was aware of the problem, his leathery features would never reveal the fact. He brought a stool forward and sat stiff-backed as always. He distrusted comfort.

The coffee tray was brought by little Mistress Ukka herself. Warmer weather had done nothing to improve her choice of apparel. She still seemed more clothes than person, a shapeless sack of threadbare, well-patched garments. Even indoors, she wore three overcoats and cloaks, with several gowns under them, showing at hems, cuffs, and collars. Her eyes peered out blearily between innumerable sagging wrinkles, just as her face itself peered out under a shabby wool cap and numerous woolen shawls. She muttered and mumbled to herself as she bustled around like a runaway laundry hamper.

But she departed at last, still speaking to anyone except the people actually present.

Eigaze sighed as she poured from the silver coffeepot. "TWo more chambermaids tendered their notice this morning." Eigaze almost never complained about anything. Seeing bright sides was her specialty. If the world came to an end, she would applaud the welcome reduction in petty crime, or something. Was Ukka this evening's problem?

The count's permanent stoop made him lean forward even when sitting, conveying the impression that he was desperate for his coffee. "It's not just her meddling, is it?"

His wife passed his cup over. "Not at all. She nags and pesters them all the time, but she's very good at her job, and they appreciate that. They can make allowances for her age, or at least the older ones can. No, it's her constant nattering about voices."

Eshiala decided that there was more to worry about than Ukka. This was just preliminary chatter.

Ionfeu shook his head sadly. "She's convinced them the place is haunted?"

"Or that she's mad. Half of each, I think. Cake?"

"I have heard no supernatural voices. Thank you. I have seen no wraiths. Has anyone?"

Everyone murmured denials. The great house was a spooky place, but there had been no reports of hauntings, except from Ukka herself.

"I don't know what we can do about her, my dear. Excellent coffee! She's been here half a lifetime. We can hardly throw her out in the hedgerows."

"I have tried to retire her," Eigaze agreed. "Three times now. She pays no attention at all, just goes on running everything."

A brief silence was broken by one of Hardgraa's rare flashes of humor, delivered poker-faced as always. "The army would transfer her to Guwush."

Ionfeu smiled thinly. "I don't know that even the gnomes deserve that! You must just continue to pray, my dear, that one day she will collapse completely under the weight of her wardrobe. Where does she find all those garments?" "I pray for the patience not to brain her with a warming pan," Eigaze remarked mildly. "In the attic. More cream, anyone? Honey?"

No one wanted more cream, or honey. The count twisted his head around stiffly, inspecting the hall to confirm that the domestics had withdrawn. Now he was going to get down to business.

"Ma'am," he said to Eshiala. "Centurion." Evidently his wife already knew what was coming. "We have been here almost four months. So far Yewdark has served us well as a sanctuary. The Covin has not discovered us, the neighbors have been discouraged."

He meant that Maya was safe, of course. This lonely exile they had all accepted so willingly had no purpose except to protect the child upstairs.

"However, I foresee a problem." Hardgraa nodded. "The grounds?"

Ionfeu raised his silvery eyebrows to acknowledge the hit. "Indeed! They are a jungle, as you know. Years of neglect. And spring is coming. Were we what we pretend to be, we should have done something about them already."

With a steely glance, the centurion deferred to the impress. She did not see any difficulty. "Can we not just hire gardeners?"

"That would be the logical procedure, ma'am. But it will require a small army of them, at least at first."

"Oh. Money?"

"Money," the old man agreed uncomfortably. "We did as we were instructed. We hired servants and set out to live the normal life of country gentry. We live modestly and try not to attract attention. It was what his Majesty wanted. Unfortunately, this establishment is draining our resources at a very alarming rate."

Eshiala had never had to worry about money in her life. Her parents had lived simply, within their means. Her mother had been a frugal homemaker, her father a practical merchant. They had never hankered after luxuries they could not afford. They would not have regarded Yewdark as modest, although now they might. Ever since the prince imperial had wooed and won their daughter, gold had poured into their lives like a spring flood.

The count's embarrassment was mirrored in his wife's face. These two would never have had to fret over money, either. An odd glint showed in the centurion's eye, but he did not comment.

"More coffee, ma'am?" Eigaze said. "The real problem is not money as such, you understand. Everything we possess is at your service. The problem is getting money. Honey? We could write to Tiffy and he would bring us gold in a wagon."