A Man Of His Word - Perilous Seas Part 39

"My a.s.sociates helped. Thinal got us over the wall. I talked with a few of the witnesses. *Most everyone was too shaky or drunk to question much, and Darad dealt with those that weren't. Wasn't dangerous with the sorceress gone."

"So the lady's happily married and the faun had his journey for nothing? "

"Married," Andor said. "Not happily, I suspect. Thinal broke into the royal apartmentsa""

"No!"

"Near as no matter! He goes loony if there's jewels around, and that palace has sacks of them, enough to call him like a blowfly to a dead horse." Andor casually reached in a pocket and pulled out a glittering handful that had to be more wealth than Gathmor had ever seen in his life.

"Here, you can have *em. These were just his warmup, sneaked on the hoof. He located the sultan's window, and he was almost down to the balcony when out came the sultan himself." Andor was grinning again. "At least he was very big, and loaded with gems; don't know who else it could have been, not there. And he started pacing. He marched up and down for an hour, with Thinal hanging on a vine right over his head." The imp laughed. "The little scrounger hasn't been so scared in fifty years! He wet his pants three times and was waiting for the djinn to notice the smell."

Gathmor guffawed, then frowned. "What's a man doing walking around on his wedding night?"

"Not what's he supposed to be doing on his wedding night, there's a sure bet! And even more interesting was the sound from inside."

"What sound?"

"Weeping." Gathmor grunted again. You'd never catch a jotunn letting his bride weep at a time like that. Keep *em busy, that was the secret.

"So where's the faun?"

"In jail. Still alive, though. Surprisingly."

"How'd you know that?"

Andor wrinkled his nose and chewed for a minute, as if reluctant to continue. The vapors had all dissolved away. The sun burned as a golden blaze on the sea between the headlands, making the great palace s.h.i.+ne as if lighted from the inside, bright against a distant backdrop of flushed mountains and a still-dark sky.

"The dogs," Andor said. "The horses. Remember he told us about the beatings he got in Noom? Said he could suppress the pain?"

"As long as he could stay awake."

"Right. Well, all night the dogs and horses have been raising the Evil, all over the palace. Not all the time, but in spurts. You don't want this last one, do you?"

"No, you have it." Gathmor was still hungry and had been eyeing that last roll. He wondered why he should suddenly have an attack of politeness now, at his age.

"Grooms and dogboys are going crazy," Andor said. "Everyone is. They're blaming it on the sorceress, or demons she summoned, or came to mourn her. . . I think it's Rap's doing."

"Why'd he do a thing like that?" The sun was warm already. "I don't think he means to, but every time he loses control of the pain he sets off the livestock. You see?"

Gathmor felt a stab of horror. "What pain?"

Andor didn't answer for a moment, avoiding the sailor's eye. The boat rocked on a slow swell, gradually drifting away from the sh.o.r.e as the fisherman's wind awakened. The harbor was stirring. All over the great bay, sails were rising.

"He's in a Zarkian jail," he said at last. "Just leave it at that, mm?"

"No. Tell me."

"The wheel."

"What in Evil is the wheel?"

"Well, I gather they didn't use a real wheel, just the floor. They staked him out with chains. Then they smashed his bones with an ax handle."

The boat rocked in silence. Gathmor stared idiotically at his companion, unable to believe what he had heard.

"I even talked with one of the guards who'd helped," Andor said softly. "Then I handed the conversation over to Darad. That's one less, if it makes you feel any better."

The sailor's hands were sweaty, and there was a pain in his throat. He was surprised to realize that he hadn't even been swearing. How could men treat a man like that? Chained down? Unbelievable! Filthy djinns!

"I don't understand," he muttered. "He's an adept. He should have been able to talk them out of it. G.o.ds! Talk them into letting him go, even."

"He can't talk. He'll never talk again."

"How?"

"Red-hot iron."

For a moment Gathmor seriously believed he was going to lose his breakfast. Then the fit pa.s.sed. He wiped his forehead. "What do we do now?" His mouth was dry and cloacal.

"There isn't one thing we can do!" Andor shrugged sadly. "Not a thing. He'll certainly be dead in a couple of days. He was given to the guards he'd shamed, see. And he'd killed some of their . . . I can't believe even an adept can heal that kind of damage, and I expect they'll be watching for healing and work him over again if it starts."

He paused, as if inviting Gathmor to argue. Gathmor didn't. "We go home, sailor. We provision the boat and head for the Impire. I've got gold . . . you can keep those baubles I gave you. I'd prefer we head north, to Ollion, but Qoble will do me if you want to go back west. Let me off somewhere civilized, you keep the boat. I'm sure Jalon will give you a lesson on the pipes if you ask him, and you'll be a rich sailor in no time, if the magic lasts." He sighed. "Ah, civilization! Fine wine in crystal, tasty food on gold plates, smooth women on silk sheets."

Gathmor felt a drowning sensation and tried to struggle. "Never! Leave a s.h.i.+pmate? There must be something we can do!"

Andor smiled sadly, holding the sailor's eye. " *Fraid not. I've got powers beyond most men's, and I've never met a man Id rather have at my side in a tight spot more'n you, Skipper. But we're still just a couple of vagabonds really."

Gathmor shook his head fiercely. "Desert a s.h.i.+pmate? You think you can talk me into that? After what he risked for me in Noom? Think your d.a.m.nable charm will convince me of that?"

"I wouldn't use charm on you, Gath," Andor said crossly. "Pretty girls, yes. All the time! But never my friends. And my eyelashes won't work on the palace guard. They're a tough buncha"I'd never try more than two at a time. I'm sure I couldn't bedazzle three. You think I can just walk into the jail and carry Rap out with me? Two of us couldn't carry him anyway, the state he must be in. Two of us can't fight a sultan and his army and his people. There's a war coming, so I hear . . . No shame in giving up when a job's impossible, Cap'n. That's just plain sanity."

Gathmor groaned.

"A sailor knows that," Andor said. "You furl your sails in a storm, right? And no one calls you a coward. This is the same thing. It's hopeless."

Trouble was, he was right.

"I like it no more than you do, Cap'n. Even Rap can't expect a witch to fly in the window every time he wants onea"and you and I shan't be needed if one does. Even if we could get him out of the dungeon, he'd just die on us anyway. The wheel's not torture, it's a slow execution. He's as good as dead now. Two more deaths won't solve anything."

Very convincing, was Andor. Logical and clear thinking. A sound, honest man for an imp, and no s.h.i.+rkera"he'd been around the palace in the night, and that had not been a mission for a coward.

"I suppose this was what Lith'rian foresaw when he said it was too close to call?"

"It isn't too close now," Andor insisted. "The girl's married and bedded, and in Zark she'll stay that way. Her kingdom's been divided between her enemies. The wardens have lost interest. The sorceress is dead and the faun as good asa"the sooner the better for his sake. He tried and he failed! It's as simple as that."

"I guess so." Gathmor sighed. He glanced around and checked the wind. All the way around to Qoble was a fair voyage, but of course they could make landfalls on the way this time. They needn't take on stores for the whole trip. "I suppose so," he repeated.

"Ever been to a theater, sailor? Tragedy in Three Acts? That's it! The curtain falls and the play's over. The audience dries its eyes and goes home and gets on with real life."

"I suppose." Gathmor smiled to show his acceptance. "And I suppose I'm lucky to have you here to stop me doing something crazy. Just feels like there ought to be more, somehow."

Tumult, and shouting:

The tumult and the shouting dies;

The captains and the kings depart.

a" Kipling, Recessional

About the Author:

Dave Duncan: (From his web site)

I was born in Scotland in 1933, which must have been a vintage year because there are few of us around. I studied geology at the University of St. Andrews (playing not one hole of golf all the time I was there) and came to Canada in 1955. I lived in Calgary for the next thirty years as a respectable and reasonably successful scientist and businessman. I took up the secret vice of writing in my fifties, and made my first sale two weeks after a cyclical slump in the oil business put me out of work for the first time in my life. I changed horses and never looked back.

I enjoy writing, but it IS hard work, and can be very lonely. Even after thirty or so books, it gets no easier. I try never to repeat myself and yet not wander too far from the sort of entertainment my fans have enjoyed in the past and expect in the future.

My wife and I have been married (to each other) since 1959. We have one son, two daughters, and four grandchildren. She is my in-house editor and critic. Without her input, I would still be moldering in slush piles, and she really ought to be listed as co-author. Although she is an omnivorous reader, she doesn't much care for Fantasy or Science Fiction, which may be why she does such a good job of identifying my mistakes.