Magic Casement

1

Soon after Darad departed, the boys returned from their meal. Little Chicken beckoned Rap and led him out across the compound, barefoot and virtually naked. The air felt worse than ice water, freezing the tears that ran down Rap’s cheeks. Within seconds he was shaking uncontrollably; his toes and ears were numb. Little Chicken was wearing no more than he was, but he grinned at Rap’s discomfort and sauntered at a leisurely pace to show how little the cold bothered him. Their destination turned out to be a garbage tip at the back of the big house, where scraps were being dropped out through a flap. Fleabag and his pack were snuffling and growling as they scavenged among the remains. Anything worth eating was grabbed by the nearest dog, which then raced off to dine in private. Everything else was soon trampled and frozen to the ground.

Little Chicken made eating gestures and pointed.

Rap shook his head and turned away, but not before he had seen the gloating amusement—a man would eat anything when he was hungry enough. Tomorrow, or the day after, Rap would be at the garbage, disputing with the dogs for offal.

Back in the hut, Rap soon discovered the rules. He could go out any time he wanted, but he must not take any of the fur robes or the buckskins that lay heaped by the door. Bare feet and his shorts were all he was allowed. That restricted his movements like a chain on an ankle. Nor might he enter any of the other buildings.

The log house was home to thirty-four boys, ranging in age from toddlers up to Little Chicken, who was easily the oldest and largest, and certainly the ruler. Males had little to occupy them in the great forest in winter, for the women did all the work. The boys spent their time in sleeping, combing their long hair, and rubbing themselves with the well-matured bear grease that gave them their loathsome stench. Thinking it might have some value for keeping out the cold, Rap tried it himself, but the only advantage he could find was that it stopped his skin cracking. He felt no warmer for it and thereafter he stank as badly as the others.

They also played complicated games with sticks and a board; and they wrestled. Little Chicken loved wrestling, but there was no one there large enough to give him a reasonable match. Rap would have been the closest, but there seemed to be some reason why Little Chicken must not tackle him, for which Rap was duly grateful. Little Chicken, therefore, would organize teams of the others, usually Fledgling Down and Cheep-Cheep, the two next in age, but sometimes four or five of the smaller boys. Then he would take on the whole team. He always won, usually ending by bouncing his opponents off the walls.

Within a few hours, and merely by sitting and listening to the boys' chatter, Rap began to uncover the secrets of the language. It used comparatively few words, and only in simple ways. Many were exactly the same as the words he knew, and many others were almost the same with certain sounds switched in a predictable fashion—th to t and f to p, and a few others. Soon he was making sense of the talk.

Then he made the mistake of asking a question. Little Chicken barked out, “Not answer!” and jumped up. He scrambled across and arranged himself cross-legged in front of Rap. “You speak now?” he demanded intently.

“I speak slow.”

That was very satisfying news. “Seven days I get my name!” Little Chicken grinned, showing his oversize goblin teeth.

Rap looked blank.

“New name! Not Little Chicken—Death Bird.”

“Good name!” Rap said politely. Not knowing the word for tattoos, he waved a finger around one eye, and a vigorous nod showed that his guess was correct.

Obviously this was all a cheat. Little Chicken was at least two years older than any of the other boys, and Rap had already noted some tattooed and married men who could be no older. So Little Chicken had been held back, the fruit kept on the tree until it was overripe, so that he would have an unfair chance in the testing, whatever that might be. Now this pushover stranger had arrived to make the contest even more unfair. Little Chicken was justifiably confident.

“Tell me about testing?” Rap asked.

Little Chicken looked surprised, and then an expression of great delight came over his big ugly face as he realized the extent of Rap’s ignorance. “No!” He swung around and snapped orders to the others—no one must talk of the testing. Happily he turned back to his victim.

“After testing I have good ideas!”

“Yes?” Rap was certain that he was going to disagree.

“I light small fires on your chest!”

Rap did disagree.

“I pull off ears and make you eat them!”

“I pull feathers off chickens,” Rap said firmly.

“Flat Nose!” Little Chicken sneered. “I push your toes up your nose.”

Rap made a loud clucking noise and flapped his arms. That worked. Little Chicken almost gnashed his teeth with fury, while a few of the braver boys behind him snickered.

Frequently thereafter Little Chicken would come to sit and stare gloatingly at Rap and announce some new atrocity he had just thought of, but the clucking noise was a potent reply. It drove him almost to distraction, and often drove him away. Either some rule prevented him from using violence, or else he was saving that for later.

The grisly threats were unbelievable, Rap decided—just another strategy to unnerve the victim, as the garbage had been. He firmly resolved not to let it rattle him, but that was not an easy resolution to keep. By the time the village settled down to the sleep that night, his head was swimming with the weakness brought on by hunger.

But he had farsight. He had easily located the food store, in a room at the back of the single women’s lodge, and there seemed to be no locks on any of the doors. Kept awake by his howling stomach, he lay in his fur robe among the sleeping boys and waited through the long hours until the whole tribe seemed to be asleep and all activity had ceased, even in the married quarters. Then he arose, dressed himself in the largest buckskins he could find in the heap by the door—they could only be Little Chicken’s—and quietly staggered out into the dark.

There were no sentries in that climate. The dogs kept guard and Fleabag himself was the first to notice him, but Fleabag seemed to be peculiarly susceptible to whatever it was Rap could do with animals. He came up sniffing and allowed his ears to be scratched. If Fleabag was not a purebred wolf, he was something close to it, but for his new friend he lay down and required that his chest be rubbed. Then he accompanied Rap past the big lodge where the men slept among their wives, over to the house of the single females.

Gratefully Rap slipped inside, blocking Fleabag’s attempts to follow. He stood in the dark, until his violently shaking limbs were under control again. At the far end lay the young girls, old women were at the front. There were two hearths, but the fires had been banked and the room was dim. Quivering with hunger and nervousness, he began picking his way very slowly toward the big larder that made up the rear half of the building, stepping around or over the sleepers. Here was the tribe’s holy of holies: the winter food and the unmarried girls. Nowhere could be more off-limits for a stranger, but certainly Rap had nothing to lose.

Holding his breath, mouthing a, silent prayer against creaking hinges, he eased open the big door and swiftly grabbed up a lump of frozen fish. He closed the door again, turned—and his heart made a wild leap, as if trying to escape on its own and fly away to Krasnegar. A very tiny woman was standing right in front of him, peering up with difficulty because of her extreme stoop—a dim, hunched figure canopied in the voluminous robe and hood of a female goblin. Her face was dark and dim, unclear in the crawling glow of the embers, but he could see wrinkles, and she was obviously very old.

For what seemed a small eternity, neither spoke. He felt sweat trickle down his ribs like ice. Why did she not raise the alarm?

“Faun?” she said softly. Her voice was the dry crackle of a boot on frozen grass. “Why a faun here?”

Rap said nothing. He tried to lick his lips and tasted blood from their open frost sores.

“Far from the vales,” the crone warbled in a tuneless but fortunately quiet croak, “Where his ancestors manifest… No, that’s not right. Not manifest! Magnify?”

She showed a few sharp goblin teeth, gnawing her wrinkled bottom lip. “Why is he using power here, eh?”

Rap tried to speak, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Apparently she had not thought to shout an alarm. He forced his quaking limbs to obey, sinking down on one knee to be less conspicuous if anyone else roused. Now their eyes were about level.

“I’m hungry,” he whispered. “That’s all.”

She did not seem to hear. “What goes creeping where my love lies sleeping? Eh? Fauns near my sweeting? Power in the dark woods. Fauns!”

“Please don’t wake the others.”

“He uses mastery on the dogs, that’s all.” She was very, very, old, and probably mad.

Then his heart made another frantic bound—she was not there! His farsight was detecting nothing where his eyes saw her, and his eyes could also see the embers on the hearth shining through her robe.

An evil spirit? He tried to rise and his legs would not move. He rubbed his eyes, and the vision seemed to solidify, blocking out the gleam of the hearth. He clenched his teeth to stop them chattering.

“Strange,” she muttered. “Can’t see him properly.”

“I’m hungry,” Rap repeated, barely hearing the words himself. “That’s all. I mean no harm.”

He moved a hand, to see if it would pass through the apparition, and his fingers touched buckskin—he whipped them away. The old hag had noticed. Her eyes seemed to narrow and focus more securely on him. “You! Faun! Why can’t I foresee you?”

Rap shook his head, confused. “I’m hungry,” he whispered again.

“Hungry? You?” She cackled in sudden mad merriment, and Rap cringed, expecting all the sleepers to leap up; but no one stirred.

The crone’s laughter stopped abruptly. “My sweeting!” Her voice was quiet again, like wind on hay. “You must not hurt him!”

“Hurt who?”

“Death Bird. He is the promised one.”

Rap could not remember the name. None of the boys was called that, he was sure, and he did not think he had overheard “Death Bird” in their conversation. He shook his head.

The little hag worked her mouth, as if chewing, then hummed for a moment, and finally began to croon again. “When summer came to Uthol’s valley… Remember, faun—he is precious.”

And she was gone.

Someone turned over by the near fire and mumbled for a moment in sleep.

Rap waited until his heart stopped beating like hailstones, then struggled shakily to his feet. Apparently none of the sleepers had heard the mad old woman, not even her snatches of song. That seemed very improbable! He began making his way back to the door, his whole body quivering violently in reaction. But he could almost convince himself that he had merely seen—and heard and touched—a hallucination brought on by starvation.

He slipped outside swiftly lest a cold draft awaken any sleepers, then hurried back through the black agony of the night, mentally forcing the dogs' attention away from his precious bundle. When he reached the boys' dormitory, he could feel pain in his mouth at the thought of food, but he laid the frozen lump near the embers and managed to restrain himself until it was almost half thawed, praying that the hiss and crackle would not awaken Little Chicken or any of the others. He scorched his fingers retrieving the disgusting, delicious mess of raw and charred fish, and crawled under his rug to gorge on it, and he ate every bit except a few bones, which he burned.

Then he slept.

Every night thereafter, he returned to the larder and stole food, for there was nowhere he could hide a supply from both dogs and men. He was not detected, and he did not see the cryptic delusion of the little old woman again. He did not go near the garbage tip, to Little Chicken’s great disgust and mystification.

The other boys were forbidden to speak to Rap, even to tell him what the testing would involve. It could not be physical strength, because he was bigger than either Cheep-Cheep or Fledgling Down, yet he was obviously Little Chicken’s preferred opponent. He supposed it must be some forest skill, like archery. The only thing he would not expect was fairness. Nor did he intend to stay around to find out.

He spent most his time planning his escape, but every idea he could think of was either impossible or was at once made so, almost as if the goblins could read his thoughts. Darad had taken Rap’s mukluks. High Raven had confiscated Andor’s and kept them in clear view beside his sleeping place, so footwear would have to wait for last. Rap had to make a long search with farsight before he located his parka and fur trousers, only to learn that they had been disassembled and stitched together as a rug, again for the chief’s personal glory.

That news was terrifying, as if a captive in a dungeon had learned that the key to his cell had been melted down. It threw a depression over him such as he had never known. His nightly prowls had shown him that buckskins were much inferior to furs. Within minutes his teeth would be chattering. He was no goblin, able to survive in the forest without furs. He was imprisoned by invisible bars of pure cold.

Dancer and Crazy had been placed in the stable with the goblins' stock, and he could see no problem in stealing them when he was ready to make a break—until the fifth day, when two men saddled them up and rode them away. They did not return. Rap, therefore, would be forced to steal one of the stunted goblin ponies and would not have the advantage of a better mount in the inevitable chase.

He had abandoned his early idea that half the men were away on a raiding party. There were no other men. Darad had explained what happened to half the adolescent males in the tribe, and Rap had reluctantly come to believe that Little Chicken’s grisly jokes were not mere sadistic humor—they were real plans. The loser would be dismembered by the winner.

Unfortunately, his escape was going to be certain suicide. With the aid of his farsight he could likely steal the mukluks and a pony of sorts, but not the clothes he needed. He would freeze to death in buckskins, unless he was recaptured first. Nevertheless, freezing seemed like a more enjoyable death than the procedures Little Chicken kept devising, so to the forest he must go.

He left it too late. A wicked wind sprang up at sunset on the day he had planned for his departure, and he glumly decided to wait for the next night, although that would be his last chance before the testing. And either Little Chicken had been lying, or had made a mistake, or else Rap had miscounted, but he awoke to find the boys excitedly dressing themselves in their buckskins, which he had not seen them do before. He could detect frantic activity in the women’s hut and the married quarters, and soon he saw other goblins streaming in from all points of the compass, bringing their womenfolk and their children along on horseback to watch the fun. Obviously this was the day of the testing.

He still did not know what was expected of him, except to die bravely.

And slowly, of course.

2

The wan polar day gleamed hesitantly through a white ice fog, a mere watery glow on the southern horizon, casting no shadows, and barely brighter than good moonlight. Wind was lifting wisps of snow and trailing them along the ground. The feasting had been going on in the main hut for several hours and the only persons not included were Rap, Little Chicken, and some of the most ancient women, who arrived at the boys' cabin with bags of equipment to prepare the contestants. They began by sitting them on stools and smearing them both with bear grease. They dressed Little Chicken’s hair in the usual slimy rope, but Rap’s tangled mop frustrated them… He did not recognize any of them as the woman he had seen in the night.

The crones toiled in silence, ignoring Rap’s questions, but Little Chicken chattered in great spirits. He sat on his stool as the women worked on him, gloating at Rap and rehearsing all the vilest torments he could think of.

“You make good show, Flat Nose!” he begged. “You die long!”

All Rap could do was try his clucking noise, and today even that failed to ruffle Little Chicken. “Death Bird!” he insisted, and grinned happily.

Oh, Gods!

Rap reeled back on his stool, choking down a cry of despair. He is precious? Even if his hunger had made him hallucinate a vision of a goblin sorceress, how could it have put that name on its lips? Had the apparition been real, after all? Was he doomed to fight a champion guarded by sorcery?

Then he remembered that Little Chicken had mentioned his new name earlier, the first time they had spoken. Rap had forgotten it, that was all. So this was merely another instance of Rap’s mind playing tricks on him. There had been no old woman. Obviously she had been nothing but a figment of his tormented brain.

And Rap had evidently concealed his momentary horror, because Little Chicken had not noticed it. “Clover Scent!” he added, and sighed with pleasure.

Any change of subject was welcome. “Clover Scent?” Rap asked shakily.

“Also today I marry Clover Scent! I give her bits of you for wedding present.”

Rap did not ask which bits, and the prospect put his companion back on his grisly litany again. Rap scanned with farsight and detected a very young girl being groomed in the single women’s hut.

But now the contestants were almost ready. The old hags produced thick fur mitts for them; then fur shoes of a type Rap had not seen before. They seemed impractical garments, cut low on the ankle, useless in snow, but they were enough to tell him what the testing would involve and why he, a nongoblin, was preferred to the smaller Cheep-Cheep and Fledgling Down.

Little Chicken watched him work it out and grinned.

The mitts and shoes would be worn to prevent fingers and toes falling off, and soon earmuffs appeared as well. But there would be no other garments except the usual loincloths.

A strong stud makes a strong foal—Rap had heard that at least once a day from old Honinin for years. Darad had said the goblins weeded out their weaklings, and obviously they bred their men to be resistant to cold.

“Very cold day, Flat Nose. Bad wind.”

The feasting ended; the villagers and their guests came streaming out into the fading twilight and the bad wind. It was a very bad wind, swirling the snow around the compound and streaming the smoke from the chimneys. The cold was so intense that the snow creaked underfoot. Even the goblins did not like it, and the children had been wrapped in furs as well as their usual buckskins. The spectators huddled together, more in bunches than in an even circle, waiting to view the contest. They stamped their feet and grumbled, and their breath was whipped away in quick white clouds.

In the center of the circle lay a tree trunk, and the sight of it gave Rap the last clue he needed as he was led forward, swathed in a thick fur cape. Even with that, he was shivering. The wind stung his bare ankles with gritty snow and bit his face. It was hard to breathe in such cold; his eyes watered, his nose streamed, and the mucus froze on his stubble. He cringed at the knowledge that he was surely going to be stripped of the cape very shortly and he wondered whether the resulting torture of the wind could be very much less than what Little Chicken would do to him afterward.

Yes, it could. His best strategy was to hang on as long as possible and hope to freeze to death.

“Just hold your end up,” Darad had said.

Little Chicken marched to one end of the tree trunk; Rap was directed to the other—the thicker, heavier end, of course. Four men advanced to lift the log, and Rap wondered whether he would be able to support the load at all, even without the cold to worry about. He looked down the horrible length of it—rough bark and nasty stubs of branches sticking out at intervals. The men stooped and heaved, and up it came, caked still with snow on its underside.

Then his cape was snatched away and the sudden impact of the air on his skin was worse than being plunged into ice water. He gasped with the pain of it and saw Little Chicken enjoying his reaction. At once he was pushed forward, under the end of the tree trunk, and the men lowered it. Sharp, hard bark bit into his shoulder, the weight almost buckled his knees, and he scrabbled for a grip with his fur mitts.

Little Chicken took hold of a convenient stub of branch. There was no such handhold at Rap’s end, so he had less leverage to work with—High Raven had missed no bets at all. The goblin gripped firmly and stepped back, pulling.

Rap had not been prepared to do anything but take the weight. The sudden jerk almost pulled the log off his shoulder. He stumbled forward and started to fold under that monstrous load, then straightened up with a huge effort, ripping skin from his shoulder in the process. Little Chicken grinned happily and pushed; Rap staggered backward, and again almost fell. The spectators cheered and shouted ribald comments.

Obviously anything went in this game, but after those two playful attempts Little Chicken gave up his efforts to dislodge Rap’s grip—he would spoil the fun if he succeeded. He spread his feet, steadied the log with one hand, and put the other on his hip in a show of bravado. Then he just stood and smiled, waiting for the cold to do its work.

The spectators were silent now, hunching their shoulders against the wind, stamping their feet in the snow, waiting also. Small children fretted. Dogs sniffed curiously around the visitors' ankles. Wraiths of snow circled across the compound and the chimney smoke hurried away.

They would not have to wait long. Rap could feel the life draining out of him. It could only be a few minutes before his body temperature fell to the point at which he would faint. Or else he would simply drop the log, for his muscles were leaping in uncontrollable spasms, his legs trembling violently; he could hardly stop his knees from buckling. His teeth were rattling, his skin turning white. Soon he would be as pale as a jotunn. He tried a quick heave on the log and it was immovable. Little Chicken did not even have to raise his spare hand to steady it, nor move his feet, His grin was growing wider and wider as he watched Rap weaken. Another couple of minutes ought to do it.

Rap recalled his vision of the old woman warning him not to harm Little Chicken, and thought that ought to be funny, somehow.

What use was a word of power here? What use stubbornness? What use was Rap going to be to Inos, who would be robbed of her throne because he had failed in his attempt to warn her? Why did his talent have to be farsight, instead of physical strength or stamina, or Andor’s irresistible guile? Only farsight and a knack for horses…

Or dogs! Rap uttered a silent scream. He felt Fleabag’s equally silent bristle of alarm from somewhere in the crowd.

Either the light was fading much faster than usual or Rap was on the point of fainting, for dark waves were surging across the compound. Little Chicken had raised his free hand back to the log, so he was probably about to try another push, or a pull, and that would be the end—Rap was barely able to keep upright standing still. The slightest jerk would fell him.

Fleabag! Help!

Just for devilment, Little Chicken gave the trunk a quick twist. The bark scraped on Rap’s shoulder. He was too numb to feel much pain, but also too numb to react properly, and the log almost rolled off. He recovered and sent a desperate appeal to Fleabag, a picture, directions…

The waves of blackness were coming faster, making rushing sounds like water on the shingle at Krasnegar. The compound rose and fell, flickering now. The end was very close. Little Chicken could tell. He began rocking the log to and fro gently, amusing both himself and the audience by watching how Rap tilted to and fro beneath it, his legs locked, his eyes barely open, his breath coming in short gasps. The swings began to grow larger, to and fro… Which way would Rap fall?

Fleabag!

A dog as large as a full-grown timber wolf came racing across the compound at full wolf speed, heading for Rap. As it passed Little Chicken it veered unexpectedly, careering into the backs of his knees. Dog and boy and log collapsed in a heap.

Rap staggered wildly, but he had managed to hold up his end of the tree for an instant longer than Little Chicken had. The other end had fallen first. Then he toppled into the fur robe that was thrown around him. Waiting hands snatched him up and rushed him to the lodge for treatment. Fleabag slunk away, looking confused. The spectators burst into noisy debate as they streamed off in search of warmth.

Little Chicken was left where he was, prostrate on the snow, beating one fist against the log in fury and weeping bitter tears that froze before they reached his chin.

3

Barely conscious, Rap was carried into the communal cabin, and there blacked out completely from the shock of sudden warmth. But the women were experienced in dealing with cases of severe exposure and they had their remedies ready. In a few minutes he became aware of their attentions, and of a large audience, also.

Not all the torture of the goblins' testing was reserved for the loser. Repeatedly he recovered consciousness and fainted again from the agonies as his limbs and body thawed, as he was compelled to move when he wanted to die, as hot fluids were forced down a tube into his stomach. He was massaged and rubbed and pummeled. Yet he hung on stubbornly to the thought that he was enduring this in public, and goblins admired courage. More important, he thought that Little Chicken would be watching. So he choked back the screams, to sweat and shudder through his ordeal in jaw-clenched silence.

The faintness passed in time, but he was left dazed and confused by shock and by the potions that had been forced into him. He was vaguely aware of voices asking what man-name he would take and he heard his own sniggering reply that Flat Nose was fine. He barely registered that they spent a long time working on his face.

Finally the mists inside his head began to clear and he found himself sitting on the men’s platform around the central hearth in the big house. He was the only one on it, as if he were a king on, his throne. The building was packed with residents and guests—men and boys in their usual shameless state of undress, women and girls swathed like tents—all standing or sitting six or eight deep around the walls, leaving a vacant space in the center of the room, between the two hearths. The great fire was blistering his back and the smoke billowed low overhead like a ceiling.

He squirmed as he realized that he was thus on display while wearing nothing but a loincloth. Then he saw that the empty floor in front of him was not quite empty. His long shadow jiggled and danced on it, while sitting cross-legged in the center and deliberately placed in that shadow was Little Chicken, face expressionless, stoically awaiting his fate. His long queue, of which he had been so proud, had been hacked off at the roots, and he was wearing nothing at all. In mixed company? The shock of that discovery was enough to jerk Rap out of his confused lethargy. He looked around.

That was the signal. High Raven came strutting forward, his bears' tooth collar clicking, his rope of gray hair hanging down over his paunch. He also wore a ceremonial cap of black feathers with a high-curved raven’s beak, sticking out above eyes that glittered in the firelight, full of hate and fury.

He raised his arms and bowed low. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem!”

The audience echoed him. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem!”

Rap had no idea what was expected of him, so he staggered to his feet. He was at once embraced by High Raven in a hug made slippery and smelly by their mutual coatings of bear grease.

“High Raven honors his son, Flat Nosel” High Raven embraced him again.

Two younger men came forward, looking no happier, and also embraced Rap—Dark Wing and Raven Claw. These were Little Chicken’s brothers and now apparently Rap’s, also, but the words and gestures of welcome stopped short of their eyes.

Then the new member of the family was presented with gifts—a ceremonial stone dagger and a complete set of buckskins, from boots to hood. Obviously these had been prepared in advance for Little Chicken. Equally obviously, some words were then expected from Rap, so he stammered that he was honored to be admitted to Raven Totem and the beadwork on the clothes was the finest he had ever seen. Then he ran out of ideas.

But apparently he was performing satisfactorily, for now the visiting chiefs were brought forward to be introduced—Death Hug of the Bear Totem, Many Needles of the Porcupines, and a couple of others. None of them was bothering to conceal his amusement at the way High Raven had outsmarted himself and lost a promising son. They were laughing at their host, and that humiliation was likely hurting him more than any regrets he had for Little Chicken.

Each chief said a few words, and Rap soon gathered that the inexplicable assistance he received from Fleabag was being regarded as divine intervention, which explained why Little Chicken was not howling for a rematch. Rap thought of the strange old woman he had seen. Chosen one … he is precious? Her prophecies had not come true. Obviously she had been nothing but a delusion.

The last of the honored visitors returned to his seat. So far, so good! Rap was beginning to feel more like himself, his head was clearing, and now he was apparently a goblin in good standing. He wondered if he could obtain assistance for his journey south.

He could dream again of reaching Kinvale! And after he had given Inos her warning, he might even manage to track down Darad and gain revenge.

His pleasant speculations were shattered when the next stage of the program turned out to be a wedding. He had forgotten young Clover Scent, but now she was led forward, swathed from crown to toes. She stood in expectant silence, eyes downcast, only her rather dull and plain face visible in her wimple. Her name was inappropriate. She looked much too young to be a bride, but under the gown she had a very promising figure, soft and rounded, yet youthfully firm. Rap had now accepted that he knew what people looked like inside their clothes. He just couldn’t help knowing.

But he did not want a goblin wife.

How should he address High Raven? “Honored Father,” he stammered “I must soon go away. The way of my people is to have but one wife . .”

He was worried that this refusal might be interpreted as an insult, but no—for the first time High Raven’s burning resentment seemed to cool a fraction. He bared yellow teeth in a predatory and approving smile. Darad had explained, of course, that the purpose of this murderous ceremony was to leave fewer men to share the women.

“I will take her for you?”

Rap thought that Clover Scent might prefer one of Little Chicken’s brothers, but he was not going to argue the matter. He nodded, and that was enough. In no time High Raven, as chief, performed the ceremony, marrying Clover Scent to himself, as bridegroom. The bride’s expression did not change by a flicker, so either she did not care or she was being very tactful. High Raven had lost a son and gained a wife. He seemed to be pleased by the exchange.

Rap had not eaten all day. A quick steak would be a very nice thought. But now came the moment he had been unconsciously dreading. Clover Scent had been removed. He was left standing in his place of honor with High Raven—and Little Chicken was still sitting in the middle of that arena. He knew the agenda. He rose and came forward, head held high in spite of his nudity, the center of attention. He dropped to his knees in front of Rap.

“My life is worthless,” he proclaimed, in what was obviously a ritual speech, “and must be short. Let my death be long.” Then he stared up at Rap unwinkingly.

Rap studied him with astonishment. In Little Chicken’s place he would be a quivering, gibbering, ashen-faced jelly. Did he really not care? Then he saw the tiny flags of fear: the tightness in the strong neck muscles, the tenseness around the eyes, a fine dew of sweat sparkling on the greased forehead. Only the brave truly know fear, Sergeant Thosolin liked to say, for only they have mastered it. Rap felt admiration then. Little Chicken was afraid, but he had mastered his fear.

“You know our customs?” High Raven inquired.

Even leaving aside warnings from delusive old women, Rap had no intention of damaging any part of the young goblin, but he could not resist taking a little revenge for the days of taunting. “Little Chicken has told me many good ideas.”

High Raven seemed pleased. He nodded. “How do you work?”

Seeing Rap hesitate, the chief explained—some performers liked to hang the victims by the hands, which made the show easier for the audience to see. Others preferred to stake him out on the floor, where he was more accessible, or over trestles. The choice was Rap’s, for this was to be his show.

Rap pursed his lips, as if considering the matter. Then he appealed to the victim. “Which do you think best?”

The irony did not escape Little Chicken; his eyes narrowed briefly. “On floor!” he said emphatically. “Last longer.”

Now Rap’s conscience rebelled. This teasing was a torture in itself. “I do not wish to do this thing.”

Father and son reacted with shock.

“It is duty!” Little Chicken shouted, looking quite horrified. “I will tell you things to do! Many things, much pain!”

“Silence, trash!” High Raven turned to Rap. “Who will you have do this, then?” Perhaps he was hoping to be appointed substitute torturer as well as substitute bridegroom, to be avenged on this son who had so shamed him and his house.

Rap was sweating now, and not only from the heat of the roaring furnace behind him. He suspected that if he said the wrong thing he might yet find himself staked out and providing the entertainment. Much worse was the realization that Little Chicken’s fate might be unavoidable, in which case the kindest course would be for Rap to undertake the job and give him a quick death in a clumsy amateur’s mistake. Could he bring himself to do that?

“What happens,” he asked, “if I do not say another to do this?”

Little Chicken howled and hurled himself forward to embrace Rap’s feet. “No!” he shouted. “I will make good show! I will die very slow! Long pain! Much agony!”

Unbelievable! Rap stared down at him, speechless. What alternative could possibly be worse than what he was asking for?

High Raven had colored in fury and he glared up at Rap. “You bring shame upon the clan! You disappoint our guests!”

“It is not the way of my people!” Rap protested, glaring back. He had long ago discovered that sometimes the only way to handle old Honinin was to use that glare – stubborn. It did not work on High Raven, though.

“We are your people! The Raven Clan!”

“Also I have another people.”

The chief was almost foaming with rage. “Insult! Renegade! You will leave this house. Go! Take trash with you!”

Rap thought of the arctic night waiting outside and the flimsy buckskins he had been given. He wondered if he would be allowed to take even those, or would just be driven out as he was.

“I am your guest! I wore good furs. You send a guest away, keep his furs?” He knew what had happened to those furs.

So did High Raven, but he did not know that Rap knew. He scowled and glanced around. “Furs will be found. You will go tomorrow.” He looked down at the groveling Little Chicken, who was wailing and rubbing his face in the dirt. “And take trash.”

The audience was muttering with disapproval and disappointment, but it sounded as if Rap would be allowed to depart safely, and also that he had just acquired a companion—a companion who would have every incentive to break his neck at the first opportunity.

But Little Chicken was harder to convince than his father. He rose to his knees and raised clasped hands in a last desperate appeal to Rap. “Flat Nose! Do not leave me in shame! I make good show! Never cry out! Long, long pain!”

His distress seemed so real and so intense that for a moment Rap hesitated. He had certainly played foul in the testing, cheating Little Chicken out of what should have been an easy victory. Was it fair now to cheat him out of the lingering death he dearly wanted? Little Chicken, it seemed, would not be able to live with himself… but Rap had to live with himself, also, and he had been the winner. He shook his head.

The burly goblin threw back his head and wailed a long, long howl of lament. Then he clambered to his feet and slunk away, doubled over with shame, hiding his nakedness now with his hands.

From the look in High Raven’s eye, Rap was no longer welcome in the place of honor. He was about to leave when he saw his gifts still lying on the platform. Thinking he might persuade Little Chicken to accept them, he gathered them up quickly, then walked away. The crowd parted to let him through, glaring contemptuously.

High Raven raised his arms to the company. “Raven Totem does not disappoint guests! More food! More beer! Cheep-Cheep, Fledgling Down—come forward.”

Rap’s knees quivered in a sudden surge of horror—he had just condemned one of the younger boys to take Little Chicken’s place on the butcher block. He thought that Little Chicken deserved it more, but then he remembered that it was only his arrival and betrayal by Darad that had prevented either Cheep-Cheep or Fledgling Down being there anyway, so really nothing had changed. Not his fault.

He reached the back of the crowd and stopped, baffled. Some of the spectators were still turning to send angry glares in his direction. He had no friends in that place, but now he was probably not eligible to sleep in the boys' house, so he would have to stay. Then a hand fell on his shoulder like a falling tree. He was spun around to face Little Chicken.

He had found a loincloth, but his face was still filthy with the dirt from the floor, streaked by tears. It also wore an expression of urgency. “You come!” He moved toward the door.

Rap dug in his toes and tried to resist the pull. Go out into the night with Little Chicken? Instant suicide!

The young goblin seemed puzzled by Rap’s reluctance, then he guessed the reason. He smiled bitterly. “Flat Nose frightened of trash?”

Rap squared his shoulders and went. Little Chicken did not saunter this time. He dashed through the unbearable dark cold. Rap ran at his heels, bare feet rapidly going numb in the snow. They arrived at the boys' house and plunged in.

It was empty and dark, the fire shrunk to embers. Little Chicken scooped up an icy rug and draped it around the quivering Rap, who dropped his bundle of gifts to huddle the fur tight about him. His companion set to work at the hearth, blowing and poking and stirring life into it. Soon he had flames leaping again. Then he looked up to study Rap—who was shivering mightily inside his robe. Little Chicken squatted in nothing but a leather apron, yet apparently at ease in the freezing temperature.

“Not go tomorrow. Go now!”

“Why?” Rap’s mind screamed at the thought.

“Dark Wing, Raven Claw. My brothers follow us.”

They would want revenge? But a man who had so recently begged for death should not be suddenly eager to escape it. Rap was suspicious still.

“I need my furs,” he said.

Little Chicken scowled. “Furs bad! Buckskins better. I show you.”

“You stand the cold better than I do.” That remark was not enormously tactful, and the goblin heaved a sigh of regret.

“Yes. But I look after you now.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Little Chicken jumped up and stamped his bare foot furiously. “I look after you!” he shouted. Apparently Rap had discovered yet another way to humiliate him. He was dark-faced and breathing hard, and his big fists had clenched until the bones showed white. Rap kept a puzzled silence.

Little Chicken grunted. “I am your trash—slave. My duty to look after you. Where we go?”

“South. Across the mountains.”

Little Chicken nodded as if that were two doors down the street and not weeks away. “I take you. We go now.”

The fire was starting to flame up noisily and brightly, but Rap was still shivering. Then his fur robe was snatched away and Little Chicken began slapping big handfuls of grease on him, spreading it in a disgustingly thick layer.

“Here, I can do that,” Rap protested, trying to take the bucket.

Little Chicken knocked his hand away and kept on working. In a few moments Rap discovered that the grease did seem to keep the cold out, when it was thick enough. Then he was being helped into the new buckskins, his protests completely ignored. They fitted surprisingly well, yet Little Chicken fussed and adjusted ties and straps on waist and ankles and wrists, taking a long time to dress his new master to his satisfaction. Then he said, “Sit!” and began greasing himself, Rap tried to help and got shouted at, but was grudgingly allowed to coat his slave’s back for him. For trash, Little Chicken was remarkably lacking in respect. He donned his old buckskins, which had been lying in lonely neglect by the door, Then he said, “Stay! Back soon,” and vanished out into the moonlight.

Rap’s farsight traced him automatically, discovering then that the whole horde of goblins was pouring out from the big house. The boys were ready, and a bonfire had been lighted to brighten their coming contest. Little Chicken dodged around the far side of the stable, made a quick dash to the women’s house, and headed for the food store.

Cheep-Cheep and Fledgling Down were led out in fur robes. Now Rap tried desperately not to watch, but apparently farsight could not be turned off at will—not, at least, when there was something of interest happening. He tried to distract himself by inspecting the horses in the stable, for the visitors had brought twenty or more of the scrawny ponies with them and he must be sure to select the best for his escape… but in spite of himself, he was a spectator. He knew how the youths staggered as they took the strain of the load, how they began to tremble when the cold ate into their exposed flesh. They did not push and pull as Little Chicken had done; they just stood and stared doggedly at each other and tried to endure. They lasted much longer than Rap had, but then Cheep-Cheep buckled without warning. Fledgling Down was wrapped up and rushed off into the lodge again. The spectators followed, two of them dragging the unconscious Cheep-Cheep.

Then Little Chicken returned. He carried a very small backpack, most of which seemed to be occupied by a wallet of bear grease. It also contained fire-making equipment, a couple of knives, a little food, and much cord, which might be for trapping or fishing. From somewhere he had obtained two short bows and two quivers of arrows. Rap was a sorry archer, but he decided he could carry his set as a spare for Little Chicken to use.

“Eat!” The goblin thrust a wad of hard wafers into Rap’s hand. They tasted like hay mixed with honey, but he was starved and chewed them greedily, crouching by the hearth.

Little Chicken had not eaten that day, either; he sat by the door and munched loudly, apparently finding the vicinity of the fireplace too warm for comfort. He also talked continuously with his mouth full, in his usual laconic phrases. “Moon up. Go to Porcupine Totem. No rush now. Cheep-Cheep make good show. If Fledgling Down, not last so long.”

“How can you know that?” Rap asked, squirming. His farsight told him that Fledgling Down was already sitting on the platform, being hailed by whatever his new name was. He had recovered much faster than Rap had done.

“Good blood!” Little Chicken explained: Cheep-Cheep’s brother Sweet Nestling had lost to Raven Claw two winters before and had done very well, the best show in many years. “First dug out toenails,” he said. “No scream. Said Thank you. Then hammer toes flat, one by one, with rocks. Said Thank you. Much applause. Then—”

Rap had lost his appetite. “I don’t want to hear!” he squealed.

For an instant the old mockery gleamed in Little Chicken’s eye. “Then sharp stick from fire…” If Rap disliked hearing such barbarities even when they did not concern him personally, then here was a way to get back at him. So Little Chicken proceeded to narrate all of Sweet Nestling’s death agonies in meticulous detail. He spoke with great admiration, sounding sincerely regretful that he had not been allowed to try to better the performance, and watching Rap’s nauseated reaction with bitter joy.

By the time the meal was over, Rap knew that Cheep-Cheep was already hanging in the middle of the lodge, waiting for his long ordeal to start. He must get out of range quickly.

“Let’s go,” he said, wondering if he would freeze to death before Cheep-Cheep died. “How many horses do we take?”

Little Chicken frowned. “No horses. Run.”

“Run all the way? No horses?”

“Horses?” Little Chicken spat. “Horses for babies and old women. Men run!”

Before Rap could argue, a handful of bear grease was pushed in his face. Little Chicken spread it with care, on Rap’s lips and eyelids and even on the insides of his nostrils. Then he adjusted Rap’s hood, pulling down and lacing a mask that Rap had not known existed, covering his face completely except for eye and nose holes. He did the same for himself and turned for the door, conversation now being almost impossible.

He was serious, obviously—they were going to run to the mountains. He began a slow jog as soon as his moccasins touched the snow. Rap fell in behind him, not truly believing that the feat was possible. All the way? The cold would freeze their lungs in minutes.

They jogged out the gateway and started across the clearing.

Two men against the wastelands? Two boys… Rap felt horribly vulnerable, much more so than when he had set out from Krasnegar with Andor. Perhaps it was the absence of the horses, perhaps just that now he knew more. Only the two of them, master and slave? He had trusted Andor completely. How could he ever trust Little Chicken, who might well intend to imprison Rap in some convenient spot and then put his good ideas into practice?

One more companion would be a wise precaution, Rap decided.

Fleabag, sleeping happily in his snow hollow, jerked his head up as if he had heard a call. He rose and shook himself. He bowed low to ease his front legs. He pointed his nose at the sky to stretch his back legs. Then he set off into the forest in a wolf’s long, easy lope.

4

Buckskins were indeed better than furs—for running. They weighed nothing, they seemed to let the sweat out without letting the cold air in, and feet could flex inside the soft moccasins and so stay warm. Encased in grease and leather, Rap jogged over the moonlit snow behind Little Chicken and gradually began to feel more confident. Fleabag soon joined them and then took up position ahead.

After covering a league or so, Little Chicken dropped to a walk. He snapped off the icicles below his nose so that he could open his mask, but when Rap raised his mitts to do the same, the goblin knocked his hands down.

Red and puffing, he studied Rap impassively for a moment, then asked, “Blisters? Rubbings?”

Rap mumbled something incoherent and shook his head.

Little Chicken nodded in grudging satisfaction. “You run good, town boy.”

Rap grinned, but only to himself. He nodded.

“Go much faster, then?”

Rap nodded with less certainty, and the goblin chuckled as he closed his hood, but when he broke from the walk into a jog again, he kept the same pace as before.

Any resident of Krasnegar needed good legs. Rap had hoped that his week on horseback might have left him in better shape than Little Chicken was. As the hours crept by, he discarded that idea. The night became a blur of snow and trees, of shadows and moonbeams, of pounding heart, of smoky breath out and icy breath in, of chest burned by the frigid air, of Fleabag loping along, always at a distance, of Little Chicken ever just ahead, usually jogging, rarely taking a walk break. At times they must run with hands held high to divert branches, at times they were slowed to a snail pace by cluttered deadfall, but mostly they just ran. There was no conversation and Rap would not have been capable of it anyway. He was soon unable to think or feel anything except a steady, grinding, suicidal resolve that the town boy was going to keep up with the goblin.

Just before moonset they came to Porcupine Totem, and when the dogs began to bark, Little Chicken stripped off the masks. He pushed Rap ahead as they approached the doors. By that time Rap was too weary to wonder why, but he was accepted as Flat Nose of the Raven Totem without question. Most of the clan were absent, visiting Raven Totem for the entertainment, but there were a couple of young men left in charge, and many old folk, and some children too young to travel.

The village layout was very similar to the Ravens', perhaps a little larger. Rap staggered into a lodge that seemed quite identical and met insufferable heat and glare. His knees almost buckled on the spot. Yet the household had been asleep and was only just reviving the fire for the visitors, so perhaps the hall was really quite cool. Little Chicken’s fingers expertly unfastened Rap’s buckskins for him, and he stepped out of them with relief, sank down on the hearthstones, and greedily drank of whatever it was they gave him. His mind was as full of smoke as the ceiling. All he wanted was sleep, sleep, sleep…

Then Little Chicken, stripped to a loincloth as he was, pushed him down flat on the big fireplace and produced a bucket of the inevitable grease, contributed by the hosts. He inspected Rap’s feet carefully, then set to work at giving his legs a vigorous massage, skillfully unknotting the tendons and easing the aches. It was heaven.

“Soft, town boy,” he growled contemptuously.

Rap agreed, thinking that he could not have run another two steps. When the massage was over, he offered to do the same for Little Chicken, although he knew he would be very unskilled.

Little Chicken’s eyes flashed in anger. “For trash?”

Probably he did not need a massage. He looked as fresh as when he had started out, hours before. After snatching up a dish of food that was waiting by the side of the fire, he stalked to the door. Rap’s farsight showed him heading for the boys' building.

It was then that Rap realized why he had been pushed forward for the introductions, and why the skin around his eyes hurt—which he had not noticed before. It was only after he had gulped a quick meal and thanked his hosts and rolled up in a greasy, stinking fur to sleep that he wondered what Inos was going to say about that.

He had hardly closed his eyes, he thought, when Little Chicken was shaking his shoulder and starting another massage to loosen muscles knotted up in sleep. Then he sternly ordered Rap to go out to the pits right away. Two of the women rushed to prepare food for the guests even as Rap was being dressed again by his handler. Little Chicken obviously took his duties seriously, whether they be to die entertainingly or to serve a master. He would allow Rap to do nothing that he could do for him, not even lace a boot; he would accept no help for himself. In his own eyes he was trash, neither boy nor man, merely a possession that should try to be useful and must pamper this fragile nongoblin.

He led the way southward without another word. Had it not been for the first glimmers of dawn light, Rap would not have believed that his stay at Porcupine Totem had lasted more than a few minutes.

The following days passed in the same way, Each morning Little Chicken obtained directions. By moonlight he brought his owner safely to another village. Conversation was impossible in the masks, and when the journeys ended Rap was too exhausted to try. In any case, his companion refused to stay in the adults' building once he had given Rap his massage and seen him settled.

Rap talked a little with his hosts, but he had nothing to tell them, and their news was meaningless to him. His questions about Darad brought only angry silence—just by asking, he was breaking the rules for guests. He was never refused hospitality or courtesy, but the welcome was grudging, partly because he was not goblin-born, mostly because of Little Chicken. To own trash was a crime. Rap had offended by not giving his defeated opponent the death he deserved and wanted.

Gradually Rap’s fitness improved, aided each evening by the most enormous meals he had ever eaten, much of them fresh meat that was a great luxury to him. Gradually Little Chicken raised the pace, but only slightly, for the villages were set an easy day’s run apart, and greater speed would have brought no advantage. The daylight was becoming noticeably longer as the sun began its slow return to the northlands and the travelers worked their way south.

About the sixth morning, just as it was time to fasten the masks and leave the lodge, Little Chicken paused and regarded Rap with a glint in his eye.

“Salmon Totem,” he said, “then Eagles, then Elk. Three days?”

“Right.”

“Or sleep in snow, then Elk. Two days?”

Any perceptible hint of a challenge from Little Chicken was unbearable. “Let’s do that, then.”

The goblin’s angular eyes widened. “And run faster?”

“Fast as you like!”

“Town boy!” Little Chicken laughed, and contemptuously pushed a handful of grease in Rap’s face.

A few hours later, grimly aware of the tearing pain of the faster pace, Rap thought to wonder why his companion had not brought food if there was to be no lodge at the end of the day’s trek.

The answer, obviously, was that a goblin could live off the land. They stopped when Little Chicken judged the light too poor for running—he did not know that Rap could see in the dark. He lighted a fire and then made two others. Three small fires were better than one big one, he said, and then he screamed in fury when Rap tried to help by gathering firewood. Needing a bucket to melt snow, the goblin used his backpack, dropping hot rocks in it. While the resulting water was necessary and welcome to Rap, it was the strangest-tasting brew he had ever swallowed.

“I find food!” Little Chicken announced. He pointed scornfully at Fleabag, whom he had completely ignored until that moment. “You keep that here?”

Rap agreed, and did so. He was glad of the company, sitting in the darkly haunted forest, watching the shadows of the densely enclosing conifers dance around his triangle of firelit snow, and trying not to wonder what he would do if Little Chicken failed to return. Fleabag just pawed out a hollow and went to sleep.

But Little Chicken did return, in an astonishingly short time. He came bearing two white rabbits, which he had caught beyond farsight range, so that Rap did not know how he had done it. He could hardly have been quicker had he run to a market for them.

He was an expert skinner and a skilled cook, too, damn him!

The campsite was in a hollow, half filled by a deep snowdrift, and Rap soon discovered that this was not by chance. As soon as he had eaten, Little Chicken set to work digging out a snow cave there, scooping like a dog, and again indignantly refusing assistance. When it was dug deep enough, he began gathering spruce branches, breaking them off trees made brittle by the fearsome cold. Again Rap tried to help and this time Little Chicken did not shout at him. Instead he demonstrated his vastly greater strength by snapping with apparent ease any bough that Rap had failed to break: Rap gave up in humiliation and returned shivering to the fires.

Finally the cave was lined to Little Chicken’s satisfaction. He backed out and nodded to Rap.

“You first,” he said. “I follow, close door.”

“What about Fleabag? He would keep us warm.”

Little Chicken’s expression should have been invisible in the dark, but Rap knew that he was regarding Fleabag with hostility. “Won’t come.”

Rap hesitated and then said, “He will for me.”

After a moment’s pause, the goblin said, “Show!” very quietly.

Rap crawled into the cave and summoned the dog without a word. Fleabag awoke, trotted over, and peered into the hole to see what his friend wanted. Then he obediently crept in and lay down alongside Rap, panting foul carrion breath in his face, swishing boughs with his tail.

The cave was a narrow tunnel and it seemed impossible that a third body could find room, but Little Chicken entered by lying on his back and wriggling, using his feet to push snow against the entrance until it was closed to his satisfaction. That was strenuous work and he ended crushed against Rap, puffing as hard as Fleabag. Rap would certainly be warm enough during the night between those two, sheltered from the wind and insulated by snow.

There was no light and Little Chicken’s face was too close to be seen properly if there were, but Rap knew the thoughtful expression it bore in the darkness. He waited for the question.

“How you do that?” said a whisper close to his ear.

“I don’t know, Little Chicken. I talk in my head. It works on horses, too, but most of all on Fleabag.”

The goblin stared blankly at nothing for a while and then asked, “You knock me down in testing?”

Here it came! “Yes. It was not the Gods. It was me.”

Rap was not sure why he had provoked this revelation. He did not think he was boasting. Probably he was clearing his conscience. He sensed the big mouth opening as Little Chicken bared his fangs and for a moment Rap half expected to feel them sink in his throat.

It was a smile. Unaware that he was being observed, Little Chicken was grinning into the darkness. “Good! Town boy won.” After a while he chuckled. “Good foe! Did not know. Know now.”

He said no more. He was still lying there leering at the dark when Rap fell into an exhausted sleep.

Recognizing no rules, the goblin could not resent cheating. His satisfaction came from learning that he had been beaten by a mortal and not some superhuman freak event… or so Rap concluded.

Rap was wrong.

Three fleabags emerged the next morning, into a thick white ice fog. The forest vanished within yards, trees fading away into the pervasive grayness in all directions. Still, bitterly cold, and treacherous, ice fog made all ways seem the same.

“Nice cave,” the goblin said sarcastically. “Stay long time.”

“South is that way. I will lead.”

“Go in circles.”

Rap shook his head. “Not me. South to the river, then upriver to Elk Totem, right?”

His companion shrugged, probably thinking that the exercise would do no harm, and he could always backtrack, or make another cave. So that day it was Rap who led, trotting through a white world striped with gray tree trunks, a silent goblin at his heels. The river appeared where it was supposed to and they followed it upstream. Farsight told Rap where to cross the ice and cut through the forest again, and he brought Little Chicken right to the door.

He was wondering what reaction he would get to this second revelation of supernatural power—awe? Respect? But when the buckskins came off in the firelit lodge, Little Chicken merely smiled with more secret amusement and made no comment.

Rap went to the hearth and was introduced to the rest of his hosts, being given the usual oily embraces. Little Chicken appeared with the inevitable grease bucket.

“I don’t need that any more,” Rap said firmly. “My legs are strong now. No massage.”

He turned his back. He had forgotten that Little Chicken took his duties seriously and was an expert wrestler. Without warning Rap was flat on his face, with the goblin kneeling on him.

The audience enjoyed that massage more than Rap did.

Lynx Totem… another Eagle Totem…

At Beaver Totem they were stormbound for four days while the worst weather of the winter howled like giant wolves around the cabins. So unbearable was the chill of the wind that even Little Chicken dressed in his buckskins to run from cabin to cabin, or to attend to calls of nature. The goblins strung lines between the buildings lest they become lost in the snow and freeze to death within yards of their own doors.

Rap spent most of the time in lonely brooding. He had been four weeks on his journey now. The king might be already dead and Inos had not been told of his illness.

Or had she?

He watched the goblins as they lived their boring winter lives, studiously ignoring him except when hospitality demanded that they must offer him food or drink. He endured Little Chicken’s mocking contempt on the rare occasions when he appeared in the adults' building. He wished fervently that his talent for befriending animals would work on people, like Andor’s.

Always his thoughts came back to Andor.

King Holindarn knew a word of power. So Andor had said.

If Andor had gone to such trouble to try to learn Rap’s word, then he would also try to steal the king’s.

Words were passed on deathbeds. If Inos could return to Krasnegar in time, her father would tell her the word that had been passed down from Inisso. More and more, Rap was becoming convinced that Darad would revert to Andor, and Andor would seek out Inos at Kinvale. He would use his occult charm upon her to win her trust, then accompany her back to Krasnegar. She must be told about her father, but she must also be warned against Andor.

He had gained a week while Rap was a prisoner at Raven Totem. He might be gaining time now if he were already over the mountains, beyond the storm’s reach. As soon as the weather cleared, Rap would tell Little Chicken to increase the pace again. Somehow he must keep up.

The weather cleared at last. The journey resumed and became more than an endurance test. Now it was a contest. The runs became longer, the rests shorter. Little Chicken would offer the challenge, and Rap would stubbornly accept. He ran until blood flowed from his nostrils and life was an endless torment of pain and exhaustion.

It was madness. With his farsight, Rap was incredibly sure-footed, but if Little Chicken sprained an ankle, the two of them would die in the wilderness. They both knew that. Rap was not going to admit that he was in any way inferior to the goblin. But he was, as Little Chicken could demonstrate with no apparent effort. Rap’s supernatural abilities he merely ignored, so that they did not count. Day by day he raised the wager. Day by day Rap would call his raise. He despised himself for it, but he could not stop. He had cheated the goblin out of the opportunity to torture him—so now he was torturing himself. The agonies might not be quite so severe, although at times that seemed debatable, but they went on longer—much, much longer, day after agonizing day.

The harder Rap tried, the more amusing the goblin seemed to find him… and the harder he tried.

Then one night, Rap thought he saw his chance. It had been the worst run yet—as they all seemed to be—and he reeled on his feet as he gathered firewood. The goblin allowed him to help with that task now, because his efforts were so obviously inferior.

Suddenly, through the blur of fatigue and pain, Rap sensed movement within his range. He straightened, searched, and decided that it was a small deer. Calling for silence, he sent Fleabag out to circle beyond the doe and then drive it. Puzzled but impassive, Little Chicken squatted down, watching without a word. Rap strung his bow, notched an arrow, and waited, trembling with exhaustion and mental effort, carefully tracking his quarry’s approach. The deer burst through the trees where he knew it would, at easy range. He shot.

He missed.

Without seeming to hurry at all, Little Chicken rose, lifted the bow from Rap’s hand, stooped to pick up an arrow, aimed, shot, and unerringly nailed down their supper just before it vanished into the trees. He handed the bow back with a smile that showed more enamel than any human mouth should contain.

Shrouded in silent misery, Rap watched the skinning and cooking. It had been fatigue making his hands shake, of course. Even as clumsy an archer as he was should not have missed that one. He had tried to look clever and he had made a fool of himself again. Every joint and muscle in his body was shaking. This last leg of the journey seemed to have lasted for days without a break. Had he thought to notice the moon’s position when they started, he could have estimated the time, but he knew only that it had been many, many hours. He was so grossly exhausted that he was not sure he would be able to eat any of the venison anyway. He could barely keep his eyes open, his chest burned, his legs ached—and Little Chicken seemed as fresh as if he had just climbed out of bed. There had to be a limit to the amount of this torture that a man could take, and Rap was certain he had reached it now. Why not just. admit that the contest was hopeless? Who cared? What did it matter?

Then Rap saw that the goblin was studying him from his crouch by the cooking fire, and his big ugly mouth was curled in disdainful amusement again. “Eat now, Flat Nose. Then sleep? Or run more?”

Rap glared back at the smirk.

Something inside him whimpered as he spoke.

“Run more, of course,” he said.

5

A hiss of rain rushing over glass died away into petty dripping noises. Logs at the far end of the room spat and spluttered sleepily in the great hearth, and somewhere far off a door was tapping. Rain was a sign of spring, Inos thought happily, and she marveled once more that it should come so soon. For long months yet the iron heels of winter would stamp on poor old Krasnegar, but yesterday she had gathered snowdrops. Flowers! Trees had never impressed her much, but flowers did.

It was a drowsy do-nothing afternoon and she was curled into a big chair in the library with a book of wide erudition and archaic, inscrutable handwriting. Near the fire Aunt Kade nodded over a slim romance. Various other ladies and gentleman were also pretending to read—few of them seriously. Inos was serious, but about ready to admit defeat. She could ask to have a scrivener transcribe the key passages for her, of course, but she had an inexplicable certainty that she was not supposed to be troubling her pretty little head over this particular tome. The request would not be refused, she thought, but the results might be a long time in coming, and meanwhile the book itself would be unavailable.

Spring! Summer would arrive in its turn and her ship would be waiting. She sighed and twisted a lock of golden hair and stared at the rain-blurred windows. Krasnegar? To be really honest, she did not long so much for Krasnegar now. She missed her father of course, but who else? There was no one of her rank there, and no one of her age who would understand one word she might say about Kinvale.

Inos turned to gaze for a moment at Aunt Kade’s drooping eyelids, wondering how she had stood it. Forty years or more she had lived in Kinvale, as wife and widow, and then she had thrown it all up and gone back to Krasnegar to mother a suddenly bereaved niece. A mere niece—a niece who had not appreciated her until she had seen what the old dear had given up. To return to stark and barren Krasnegar for a niece, when Kinvale had offered so much?

And she? Of course she must go back. She could not doubt it. She would return in the summer, unwed and unbetrothed, apparently.

Five months since Andor had gone…

Aunt Kade and her Grace—or Disgrace? —the duchess had run out of candidates at last. The long parade of suitors that had begun with the glorious Andor had ended now with the unspeakable Proconsul Yggingi. Andor had been an accident and Yggingi was a disaster. Yggingi had not been invited to Kinvale for Inos' sake, Kade had assured her of that quite vehemently. After all, he was twice her age and already married. Unfortunately Yggingi himself did not seem to appreciate such considerations. He was the worst yet, the bottom of the barrel, and not even the official barrel. Any barrel. There were a few pleasant young men in residence at the moment—men who might be allowed to brighten a maiden’s day, if not share her life—but not one of them dared come near Inos now. Yggingi’s menacing glare had walled her off as his private preserve.

One of the reasons she had fled here, to the library, was to escape the creepy attentions of Proconsul Yggingi. A library was the last place that man was likely to visit.

How beautifully Andor had read poetry to her!

None of the others had ever compared to Andor. Of course she had never expected that a lightning strike of romantic passion would be waiting in the clouds. A princess must expect to settle for rank, character, and a purely conventional physical relationship. All she could hope for there was that the man not be totally disgusting. But even being practical, she had found nothing of a size to match her mesh—except Andor. If she discounted him, there was no second best.

And she must discount him. Five months…

She raised the book again and made another attempt. A Brief History of the Late and Dearly Mourned Beneficient Sorcerer Inisso, His Heirs and Successors, with an Adumbration of Their Acts and Accomplishments. Dull to the risk of lockjaw, but relevant. A strange man Inisso must have been. Why should he have built his tower on the far shores of the Winter Ocean? Stranger still, why should he have divided his heritage? For it seemed that he had bequeathed each of his three sons an equal share of his magical powers, and apparently that was a most odd thing for a sorcerer to do. There were broad hints here, she had discovered, that some of that magic had been passed down in her own family. She would ask Father about that when she returned. She smiled at the thought of her practical, matter-of-fact father secretly performing sorcerous rituals.

She had never even had a chance to visit that forgotten chamber of puissance at the top of the main tower. It was curious that she should have found this tattered and dog-eared tome in the library at Kinvale. Very dog-eared—it had been much read over the centuries… By whom? Of course the Kinvale family was also descended from Inisso. She and the droopy-lipped Angilki were related through Inisso, as well as by countless later cross-linkages. So was the sinister Kalkor of Gark, gruesome man.

Kade had noticed her settling down with the monster volume and had asked what it was. Her first reaction had been approval—Witless Young Maiden Starts Taking Interest—but that had been followed by a strange uncertainty. Inos could not imagine her aunt ever reading such a nightmare of ennui, but knowing Kade, she might very well have a good idea of the gist of it—better than Inos would gain by her studies, likely. What she really needed was someone to discuss it with. But whom?

The library door swung open on well-oiled hinges to admit a footman, a gawky, baby-faced footman, looking around with large eyes, seeking someone.

So spring would be followed by summer and Inos would return to Krasnegar with Aunt Kade, and in a year or two they would come back to Kinvale and try again. She was young yet. Andor could not be the only bearable man in the world.

The rain slapped again, louder than usual, and Inos turned to stare at the windows without really seeing them. Why had the Gods been so cruel? Why produce the perfect candidate before she could understand how incredibly superior he was—and then whisk him away again? He had saved her sanity, of course. He had blazed through Kinvale like a vacationing God. In a few short weeks he had shown her how to live, had demonstrated what life should really be. But comparing Kinvale-with-Andor to Kinvale-without-Andor was almost like comparing Kinvale to Krasnegar. The shadows had returned when he left—not so deep, but emptier. He had sparkled with fun from dawn till exhaustion, a bottomless well of amusement, zest, entertainment, flattery, serious conversation, and—and living.

Disgusting he was not.

Five months! Now she knew better. Older and more mature now, she could see that the naive child she had been then could have held no real interest for a man of the world like Andor. But he had taken pity on her and entertained her, cheering her up. Then, when he had seen the juvenile infatuation he had unwittingly provoked, he had found a gentle way to end it. The dramatic post-haste flight into the darkness, the romantic tale of honor and danger—those had been so much kinder than just saying he had more important things to do now, thank you. He had known that she would grow up quickly, and then, when she was mature enough to survive on her own feet—as she now was—then she would see that it had all been a mirage. And all for the best.

The sound of a cough caught her attention and she looked up to see that the young footman was shifting from one foot to the other in front of Aunt Kade, while wrestling with the terrifying problem of awakening a sleeping princess without coughing hard enough to disturb the other assorted nobility slumped in the nearby chairs.

Probably the dressmakers had arrived with the gowns for the Springtide ball. Amused, Inos watched to see how the youth would solve his puzzle. In the romances, the correct way to tackle that particular assignment was with a kiss; but if he were to try that in the library at Kinvale, he would very soon find himself being scorched by the breath of the Dragon Herself.

Even at that age, she thought, Andor would have gone for the kiss and gotten away with it.

Then he glanced frantically around the room, and his eyes caught hers. She took pity on him and nodded.

As Andor had taken pity on her. Andor had shown her what she should look for in a suitor—and perhaps done so deliberately, although he had thereby raised her standards so high that they might never be satisfied. The rock of Krasnegar was a tombstone. A man like Andor had all of Pandemia to play in and need not throw away his life in the barrenlands. A princess had duty and obligations. She must live out her days on the rock, but to ask anyone else to do so, just for her sake… For the millionth time, she pondered the ironic truth that a princess lacked some freedoms a common serf could take for granted.

The footman arrived before her and bowed. She thought this one was the Gavor her favorite coiffeuse spoke of, and if half those stories were true then he was quite a lad. But now he was showing nothing but polite inquiry on a boyishly pink face.

Inos resisted a temptation to suggest he try a kiss to awaken Kade. She had learned now that excessive familiarity merely unsettled domestics; their life was easier when their place was clearly defined for them. “You can give me the message, and I’ll see that the princess gets it,” she said.

Gavor, if that was his name, did not try to hide his relief. “That is most kind of you, ma’am! Her Grace requests that both you and your aunt attend her, should it be convenient.”

Not the Springtide gowns! Inos slammed her book shut with a thump that awoke half the snoozing peers in the room and she flashed the stupid boy a glare that made him blush to the ears. He should have come straight to her, instead of doing all that dithering in front of Aunt Kade—sometimes they just did not seem to have the brains they were born with! But she rose calmly and said merely, “Thank you.” She headed for Aunt Kade. Ekka did not enjoy being kept waiting, and Inos must certainly go around by her own room on the way and brush her hair.

The dowager duchess’s boudoir—which Inos thought of as the Unholy of Unholies—was a tribute to her son’s peerless taste in decor. It was at once large and light, imposing and intimate. White and gold and powder blue, it bore a heady scent of grandeur and a glitter of pomp, yet nothing obtruded. The walls were paneled in silk within white moldings, the furniture shone in white lacquer trimmed with gilt. Clouds of gauzy lace sheathed the big windows, although that detail always reminded Inos of spiders' webs. A cheerful crackling blaze in the marble fireplace drowned out the sound of rain, keeping the room uncomfortably warm, soothing old bones.

Following her aunt in through the door, Inos first saw Ekka herself, straight and tyrannical on one of the high-backed chairs she favored, with her feet placed tight together on an embroidered footstool. Her chair was higher than any of the others, so that she could dominate, as from a throne. One dark-veined hand rested on her cane, exactly vertical at her side. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved gown of shining ivory satin and her white hair was as flawless as carved and polished marble, incongruous above a desiccated face of weathered walnut.

Other chairs were arranged in a semicircle before her. Just rising from one was the portly duke, immaculate in aquamarine. He looked worried and puzzled, as if wrestling with some problem, and his drooping lower lip was even wetter than usual. He could not have been sucking his thumb, could he?

Already on his feet beside him was the obnoxious Proconsul Yggingi, a hard, curt man in his forties. Ugh! His hair was cropped so short that his square head seemed bald, and as usual he was decked out in bronze and leather, from cuirass to greaves. Dancing with Yggingi was like wrestling a water butt. As usual, too, he was clutching his helmet under one arm—perhaps he had a deep fear of earthquakes and did not trust the Kinvale ceilings. Other officers visiting Kinvale did not wear their uniforms all the time. His wife was rarely seen in public, a semi-invalid whose existence he ignored while relentlessly pursuing Inos. His only topics of conversation seemed to be his military career and his unparalleled success at massacring gnomes in a previous posting. He was so detestable that even Aunt Kade could rarely find a good word for him.

So what had provoked this summons? Inos wondered, as she curtsied to the spiteful old relic on her raised chair, to the ponderous duke, stiffly bowing; curtsying less deeply to the egregious Yggingi; and there was another man, standing by the window, looking out at the—

Andor!

The world stopped.

It was Andor, really Andor. She knew that godlike profile even as he began to turn. He was wearing the same blue doublet and white hose he had worn the first time they met, but now also a long cloak of cobalt velvet trimmed with ermine, sweeping down to silver-buckled shoes. He turned slowly, to look at her, ignoring her aunt and everyone else. His dark eyes fixed on her alone.

Man as man should be.

He was thinner, paler… a terrible ordeal? Disaster, or some superhuman suffering, bravely borne? And not over yet, perhaps, for there was vast trouble or sorrow in those unforgettable eyes—none of the bubbling gaiety whose memory she cherished so dearly.

He paced over to her, while she attempted a smile of welcome and carefully did not gawk like a moron. He took her hands and bowed over them. His eyes had already spoken volumes—regard, pleasure at seeing her… deep sorrow?

Sorrow?

And finally he said, “My Princess!”

“Sir Andor!” She could say nothing more. His princess! Oh, yes!

Finally Andor acknowledged Kade, swooping her a bow.

“Sir Andor!” She beamed. “How nice that you can rejoin us!”

And the old harridan on the high chair had not missed an iota of that reunion, not a crumb.

“Be seated, ladies!” she croaked in her thin, antique voice.

Unable to stop staring at Andor, Inos allowed him to lead her to a chair and then watched as he walked over to sit opposite her, gracefully swirling his cloak out of the way as he sat. Kade and the other men had found chairs somewhere.

What could possibly be so wrong?

“Sir Andor has brought news for you, Kadolan,” Ekka said.

“For me, Sir Andor?” Kade was being cautious, her eyes flickering from Andor to Inos and to the others. For her, that was a strange failure of poise.

“Your Highness,” Andor said, pulling his gaze from Inos, “I am the unhappy bearer of grievous tidings. Your royal brother is… is most gravely ill.”

Inos heard herself gasp, but Aunt Kade recovered herself at once. Now she knew what was involved, she registered only polite surprise. “You have come from Krasnegar, Sir Andor?”

He bowed his head slightly. “I have. You will wonder why I did not tell you that it was my destination when I left here, and that omission I must explain to you at length. But I stayed there until almost Winterfest. When I departed, your brother was failing fast.”

Father! Inos clasped her hands tightly and forgot that this was Andor speaking. Oh, Father!

Andor glanced at her and then back to Kade. “I have brought a letter from the learned Doctor Sagorn, but he disclosed its content to me. He does not expect his Majesty to recover from this affliction. A few months at the most.” Taking a packet from the pocket of his cloak, he rose and moved over to deliver it.

Father! Father! Dying? No! No! No!

Aunt Kade took the letter and held it out at arm’s length to scan the inscription. Then she laid it unread on her lap and folded her hands over it, while Andor swept back to his seat.

“You think then that we should be prepared to depart on the first ship of spring, Sir Andor?”

“If the venerable sage is correct, ma’am, that may not be soon enough.”

The harsh tones of the graceless Yggingi broke in. “Are you suggesting that these gentle ladies attempt the journey overland?”

Andor gave him a long and inscrutable stare. “That must be their own decision, Excellency. I have known worse journeys.”

Worse! Inos thought of all the horror stories she had heard and shuddered anew. This marvelous Andor could dismiss that terrible trek so easily?

“Such as?” Yggingi was scowling at this poised young upstart.

“The Plain of Bones. Dyre Channel? Anthropophagi frighten me much more than goblins do.”

“You met goblins in the forest?”

“Twice.” Andor spread his hands and smiled. “I prefer not to discuss their habits in the presence of ladies, but I still have all my fingernails, as you can see. Childish savages, but quite hospitable. My wrestling was rusty, but apparently acceptable—a few sprains was all.”

Marvelous man!

“If Princess Kadolan decided to venture this journey, Proconsul,” the duchess asked in her threadbare voice, “Could you provide an escort for her?”

The big soldier regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “I have the troops, certainly. The worst of the cold is behind us, but it would still be a test of endurance, even for men. For ladies of quality, it would be a serious ordeal.”

He stopped and waited.

“It would certainly be an adventure,” Kade remarked cheerfully. “Inos and I must discuss it when we have read what the skilled Doctor Sagorn has written. We shall keep your generous offer in mind, Excellency.”

Inos found her mouth hanging open and closed it quickly. That her aunt would even think of such a journey was unthinkable.

“I am most curious, Sir Andor,” Ekka creaked, “as to why you set out from here for Krasnegar without informing my sister- in-law or her niece of your destination. They would have wanted to send letters.” She bared saffron fangs in a smile that should have frozen his blood.

Andor acknowledged the point with a token of a nod. “It is not a matter of pride to me, your Grace.” For a moment handsome young man stared up at ugly old woman in what seemed strangely like a contest of wills, but then he continued placidly. “I stupidly placed myself in a grievous conflict of honor. It concerned a promise made to an old friend, one to whom I owe much, a dear friend also of my father’s—”

“I have forgotten your father’s name and station, Sir Andor.”

“Senator Endrami, ma’am.”

Inos resisted a temptation to leap up and cheer. Let them chew on that! An Imperial senator? No lowly adventurer, Andor, but the son of a senator?

The duchess granted the score. “I did not forget, then. I had not been informed. A younger son, I assume?”

“His eighth.” Andor’s smile could have tamed a clutch of basilisks. “A much younger son of a much older father. I honor my father’s memory, your Grace, but I prefer to be judged by whatever I make of my own life, rather than by his accomplishments.”

Another point to Andor!

“However,” he continued, “Doctor Sagorn is an old and dear friend, one who helped me much in my youth. He, in turn, was indebted to a friend of his, King Holindarn of Krasnegar, whom he visited last summer, at his invitation. He saw then that the king was likely dying.”

Father! Inos gasped and looked at Kade, who avoided her eye. So she had known, or at least suspected!

Andor had paused for them to consider his words. He continued, speaking now to Inos. “Sagorn knew of potions that could ease your father’s suffering, but the ingredients were not available at Krasnegar. So he returned to the Impire to collect them, and by then the shipping lanes were closing for the winter. He asked me, as a favor, if I would escort him back to Krasnegar, for the overland trail is a long and hard travel at his age.”

Now Inos understood. She smiled her understanding and gratitude.

Andor, however, frowned. “It was then that I made my foolish error. He needed some time to gather his materials and he had mentioned to me that the king’s daughter was coming to Kinvale. I presumed upon mutual friendships to call and meet her.” He brought the pouting duke into the conversation with a glance. “It was sheer nosiness… and I—I lost my heart.”

Inos felt herself blush scarlet and quickly looked down at her lap. “You see my predicament,” his voice said softly—and surely he was still speaking to her. “I had been sworn to secrecy by Sagorn, for ailments of kings are matters of high import. So I could not discuss my mission.”

She raised her eyes to meet his. She smiled her forgiveness. She smiled that she had never doubted him.

He returned the smile, a little—thanking her for it—but his eyes remained grave.

“And so we went to Krasnegar. By Winterfest Sagorn had no doubt. The king commanded that the secret be kept, and the matter should properly have been no affair of mine. But now I knew Inosolan. I was his Majesty’s guest, and his daughter’s slave, but not his subject. Once again I found myself trapped in a conflict of honor, for I knew that Inos would want to know. So that was my penance for nosiness—that I must take her the doleful tidings. I bought a couple of horses, and here I am.”

Inos gasped in horror and disbelief. For her he had faced the frozen immensity of the forest—alone! So lightly! For her! Alone!

“A remarkable tale!” the duchess said acidly. “Kade, we should not detain you in your time of grief. Whatever we may do to aid you, you have only to ask, as you know.”

It was dismissal. The men rose as the ladies did. Andor was first at the door.

He kissed Inos’s hand and bowed to her aunt. “If you do decide to go, ma’am,” he said, and it was not clear to which princess he spoke, “then I would beg of you to let me accompany you. It would be the least I could do to repair my folly.”

What folly? Inos floated out behind her aunt and, despite the wounds caused by the news of her father, some part of her heart soared like a skylark into the heavens.

6

The dowager duchess of Kinvale watched the door close. Then she unleashed her bleakest stare. “You are welcome here, Sir Andor. But tell me—I believe that the noble Senator Endrami died over thirty years ago?”

He did not even blink. “Twenty-six years and three months, ma’am. I was a posthumous baby, but not quite so posthumous as that.”

“So the Lady Imagina who married the Margrave of Minxinok must have been your cousin?”

“My oldest sister, your Grace. She died when I was very young. I never knew her.”

Endrami had been a distant—an extremely distant—relative, and the boy’s information was correct. So either he was genuine or he had done his homework well, perhaps even well enough to spring those traps she had just tried to set. The Endrami lands were all down in South Pithmot; it would take weeks to confirm his story. “What chance that the girl can reach Krasnegar before her father dies?”

He shrugged. “It is in the hands of the Gods.”

“But we must all help the Gods to aid the Good, mustn’t we? How do the king’s subjects feel about a queen of such youth, and unmarried?”

“I never heard the matter discussed, your Grace. The king’s danger was still a secret.”

“I see.” Feeling unusually baffled, Ekka turned to her son, who was staring at the rug, pulling at his lip in that childish habit of his. “Angilki, you forget your duties. Sir Andor must be weary from his journey.”

The duke awoke with a start and sprang up obediently. The door opened and closed again.

Ekka was left alone with Proconsul Yggingi, who sat with his helmet on his lap, regarding her impassively.

“It can be done?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She approved of his brusque manner. “A deal, then?”

“Name it.”

“Make me an offer.”

He shook his close-cropped head and his face was unreadable. “You initiated this. You invited me. You have something in mind.”

She would crack that marble facade. “Gambling debts, mostly.”

He smiled grimly. “Mine, or do you also have a problem?”

It was she who was shaken. Such insolence she had not met in half a lifetime. “Yours. You are rumored to have gone through your wife’s fortune in two years.”

He shrugged imperturbably. “A year and a half. And I now owe forty-two thousand imperials more.”

Incredible! It was much worse than she had heard. “You are in serious trouble, Proconsul.” He would lie in debtors' prison till the rats ate him.

“I am ruined.”

“Desperate?”

The twist of his lips was barely a smile. “I have no scruples, if that is what you mean. None at all. Have you?”

She laughed, surprising herself. “None. To business, then. There would appear to be a disputed succession in Krasnegar.”

“Or soon will be. Certainly the jotnar there will not readily accept rule by a woman.”

“It is a long time since my last history lesson, Excellency. You must know much more about such things than I do.”

He chuckled. “The Impire is a shark, and it eats minnows whenever it can catch them.”

He had a surprisingly apt turn of phrase for a brute soldier. Ekka had not needed to recall her school days to know that any trouble in other realms was usually turned to the Impire’s advantage—a disputed succession, a civil war, or even a minor border squabble, and the legions would march in on the pretext of guarding one side or the other. It didn’t matter which, because both sides were inevitably swallowed up promptly. They might fight loose again in a generation or so, but by then the looting had been done. And she certainly did not need to lecture Yggingi on this.

“If the girl cannot rule, then my son has the best claim.”

The big man cocked an impudent eyebrow at her. “I understood that Thane Kalkor had a better.”

Ekka thumped her cane angrily on the rug—she was wearing a hole there, she reminded herself. It must have become a habit. “He has a claim through his great-grandaunt. But if a woman cannot rule, then she cannot pass on the title! So his case is self-defeating. His argument would be meaningless!”

“Jotnar’s arguments are usually pointed.” Yggingi crossed his legs and wriggled himself into a comfortable but not very military slouch. “Granted that your son has a claim, but your son is a subject of the imperor. The imperor cannot deny a woman’s right to rule, because his own grandmother was imperess regnant. So your argument is equally self-defeating. Interesting!”

She had not expected him to see that—it had taken her several days to work it out after Kade had let slip the tiger. Both sides ought to admit that the other’s claim was better. Of course neither ever would. “Mmm. But if the imperor decided to… to go to my niece’s assistance, then he would naturally dispatch you, as your precinct of Pondague borders on Krasnegar.”

He flushed slightly, which surprised her. “Not necessarily, but let us assume so for the moment. What exactly are you proposing, your Grace?”

“Take the girl back. If her father is dead—and if he isn’t I expect the shock of your arrival may well precipitate his demise—then proclaim her queen, and she will in turn name you as her viceroy. Send her back here to marry my son. It would please me to have my descendants be kings, even if the title is moot.”

He nodded and rose to begin pacing the room. That was a rank discourtesy, and the thump of his boots on her expensive rugs was extremely annoying, but she kept her face schooled as she had done for generations.

“That’s clever!” he said at last. “The imperor will have the ruler—whichever of them it is—here in his fist, and Krasnegar will remit taxes, to help defray the costs of the protection.”

“Moreover your creditors will be hard-pressed to reach you there, and you can loot an extra forty-two thousand imperials to pay your debts.”

He stopped by the fireplace and turned to regard her with a smile that was close to contemptuous. “Not without provoking famine, I’m sure. From what I hear, it is a bleak little spot.”

“Scruples?”

He shrugged. “I might become liable for impeachment, or at least replacement.”

“My family is not without influence in Hub, Proconsul.”

He chuckled. “True. Your son will not go to Krasnegar?”

“He would sooner die.”

“But why send the girl? Marry them now, while you have her in hand. She can sign my commission before I leave.”

This, of course, was the tricky part. She had foreseen this. “Being postdated, it would be a dubious document at best. The people might not believe, unless they saw her, and witnessed her willing signature.”

He chuckled again. “But what of the jotnar? Gnomes and goblins are good sport, but fighting jotnar would be red work. You think Kalkor would accept this convenient arrangement?”

She shrugged. “I doubt if he really cares. Looting and raping are his wont, and he could have taken Krasnegar anytime he wanted. You can buy off the thanes.”

“Maybe. You want the princess returned with the word.”

“What word?”

He laughed coarsely and sauntered back to his chair. “It is common knowledge that the kings of Krasnegar still hold one of Inisso’s words. My luck at the tables might change if I had a word.”

She twirled her gold-knobbed cane, studying it. “Then the girl stays here. I have Inosolan, and without her nobody gets the word… if there is one, of course.”

“I agree, then,” he said. “You give me Krasnegar to hold in fief from your son, and I send back one word-knowing princess. You pay the expenses.”

“Outrageous!”

Yggingi chuckled. “Necessary! In your felicitous turn of phrase, I have already looted Pondague for all I can take. My men have not been paid for months and are close to mutiny. So a thousand as seed money, plus the princess, and I shall take her to Krasnegar. You shall have her back, with the word if she gets it.”

From the first, Ekka had known the weakness in her plan—she would have to trust this self-admitted scoundrel. But if he needed money so badly, she had a little power left. “Your wife, I think, stays here. The journey would be too hard for her.”

His eyes narrowed. “I believe the danger from the goblins might require more men than I first thought. Two thousand imperials for expenses.”

Skinflint! But Ekka had nothing to lose except two thousand imperials and a sister-in-law. Angilki could breed a son on the girl and the next duke of Kinvale would inherit two words. It was certainly worth the gamble.

“Agreed, then,” she said.

Tucking his helmet under his arm, Yggingi rose and saluted. “Agreed!”

“So now you must try to get the child to Krasnegar.”

He chuckled. “Ma’am, I shall get your princess to Krasnegar if I have to kill every goblin in Pandemia and drag her all the way through the forest, weeping.”