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  The dwarf chuckled. “Maybe the place is haunted, at that! There’s something … Two somethings!”

  “Ghosts? Wraiths? Can sorcerers see ghosts?”

  “Never have before, but there’s sure something there. They’re hiding from me … Nothing serious. Can’t corner them without using real power. Forget them. They’re harmless. “

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure. “

  Rap hesitated. If anyone mentioned wraiths to Shandie, he would balk at leaving his wife and child here, and the fugitives’ hunt for safe refuge would have to start again from scratch. Every hour they spent on Cenmere increased the risk, for Zinixo must know by now how they had escaped, and his minions would be scanning the lake for suspicious ships. A vessel that showed to vision and not farsight would definitely class as suspicious.

  Wraiths were old wives’ tales, weren’t they? Rap had never seen one or even heard any convincing stories of them. On the other hand, nobody was more hard-headed than Raspnex, and if he said there were ghosts at Yewdark, there probably were. How would the impress and her companions feel if they discovered they had been tossed into a sanctuary that contained ghosts? “Wed better warn them, ” he thought uneasily.

  “Naw! There’s no danger. Here-look. ” The warlock opened his mind, so that Rap could see through his vastly greater powers.

  It was an astonishingly trusting thing to do, especially for a dwarf. It was also an eerie and unpleasant experience. The soul of a dwarf was alien, cryptic, and cold. It was chilled by lurking threats and connotations of stone-ramparts and bastions and dim-lit tunnels. The world seemed much darker and less friendly to Raspnex than it ever had to Rap; it was filled with hard edges and stern duty; it lacked cheer or comradeship. Its values were grim, practical, and unimaginative.

  Trying to ignore this uncanny discernment, Rap inspected the ramshackle old mansion. As the warlock had said, it was a sprawling edifice, much of it in poor repair, dusty and deserted, although still furnished. Faint residues of ancient shielding blurred his view here and there, but nowhere was it strong enough to defeat the warlock’s farsight. Once this rambling chateau would have been a glittering palace, but wind and weather had gnawed it ragged, and the erstwhile jeweled gardens had rioted into tangled wilderness. A couple of very cluttered rooms in the basement were obviously in use, and there an old woman was boiling a pot on a stove.

  Upstairs in the main hall, a fire crackling in the great hearth had not yet consumed all its kindling. Dust covers had been dragged off chairs and piled behind a sofa; candles had been set out and recently lit, although the sun had not set yet. Obviously the housekeeper expected visitors. As Raspnex had already remarked, the long driveway was cloaked in untrodden snow, so she could have received no mundane warning.

  And somewhere, something else … The sense of awareness was faint, barely detectable. Amusement? Expectancy? In the rafters? Then, as Rap tried to draw near, eagerness became alarm, and the presences vanished. A moment later he realized that they had moved somewhere else. He could chase them all night and never discover their true nature. He detected no evil intent-in fact, almost no intent at all, almost no intelligence. Just disembodied emotion, lost memories, dead hopes.

  He pulled back to his own mind with relief, and the chilly winter evening became warmer and friendlier again. Hardgraa, with professional caution, was unpacking the baggage and inspecting everything the warlock had prepared: food and gold and spare garments. The women were emerging from the deckhouse.

  “Weird!” Rap said. He wondered if Yewdark was a Zinixo trap, and discarded the idea at once. The man’s mind contained no humor whatsoever. If he knew where the fugitives were, he would strike at them instantly, and with all his power. Practical jokes and simulated ghosts were not dwarvish, and certainly not Zinixo.

  “But harmless. ” Raspnex had already dismissed the wraiths as being of no practical importance.

  “I think so. There isn’t enough power there to do anything. Just a sort of yearning. Is that how you see it?”

  “See them, you mean. I think there’s two. But nothing to worry about. “

  “The sisters that Ylo mentioned? Can sorcerers survive death?” Once Rap had been a superlative sorcerer; indeed he had been more than a sorcerer, a demigod. In those days he would have known the answers to such questions.

  “Dunno. I don’t intend to try. “

  “You will go and inspect this place, your Omnipotence?” Shandie asked.

  “We already did,” the dwarf said, gesturing up at Rap with a horny thumb. “One old woman, no visitors, and enough space to lose that kid of yours a hundred times a day.”

  Shandie turned to Rap.

  Choking back a few lingering misgivings, Rap said, “It looks ideal. The only problem might be if the neighbors get nosy. “

  “Country gentry?” Shandie shook his head. “Snub one of them once and they’ll all stay away forever.” He spun around to Hardgraa. “Ready to go, then?”

  “Yessir. “

  “I think I’ll come with you and see you all settled.”

  “No, you won’t!” the warlock snapped, with typical dwarvish tact. “The more footprints you put in that snow, the more suspicious this place will seem. They’re grown-ups, imp. They don’t need you to wipe their noses for them. “

  The imperor’s expression did not change, and only a sorcerer could have know what that self-control cost him. He turned to Ionfeu.

  “Proconsul, no family had served our house more loyally than yours these many generations, yet none of our forbears ever placed greater onus upon yours than that we now place upon you and your dear wife. We charge you both to guard and cherish your impress and the princess imperial, bidding you protect them in this hour of danger as if they were of your own blood. “

  The bent old aristocrat straightened as well as he was able. “Sire, your trust honors us beyond words. I swear that the wellbeing of your wife and child is as safe in our hands as it could be in any.”

  Apparently moved beyond words, Eigaze attempted a curtsey on the slippery, snowy deck.

  “And you, Centurion,” Shandie said, “for many years have guarded our person well. Now we give into your charge those whom we value dearer yet, and we do not doubt your dedication to their welfare.”

  Hardgraa saluted, his eyes filling with tears. Rap was impressed. He would never fully understand the strange bond between imps and their imperor, but he could see that Shandie did. He knew how to use it, too.

  But then the imperor turned to his wife, and was suddenly at a loss for words. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he blurted out, “My dearest! It may be a long time before we meet again. May the Gods be with you.”

  “And with you, sire,” she muttered. “I fear you travel a hand road, and a long one. Maya, say bye-bye to Daddy.”

  “Bye-bye,” the child echoed, not understanding or caring much.

  As Shandie stooped to hug his daughter, Ylo stepped forward into the midst of the silence. Bowing, he took Eshiala’s hand and raised it to his lips.

  “Crocuses in springtime,” he said softly. “Light without shade.”

  Apparently the imperor did not hear the words, nor notice the sudden flush on his wife’s cheeks.

  But Rap did, and he broke his personal code of ethics by reaching into the woman’s mind to find the reason. It was a poem, probably elvish, and Ylo had misquoted it.

  Daffodils in springtime,

  dancing, eager, light without shade, like lovers.

  4

  Why could she never be happy? Why did she feel so guilty? Had the myriad Gods Themselves in all Their glory knelt before her, each granting her a wish, she could not have dreamed of an arrangement better than this.

  True, she was soaked to the knees by the snow and Maya was a dead weight in her arms, fretful and difficult. But she was free of the court, free of pomp and ceremony, free of playing at be- - ing impress. The old count and countess-wallowing gamely th
rough the drifts ahead of her-were dears. She had found sanctuary. No one could be more reliable than Hardgraa. She would not have to fight off Ylo by day, or submit to her husband’s attentions by night. As far ahead as she could see, she had no worry except Maya, and her daughter was her joy and most welcome duty.

  White Impress had sailed away into the cottony snow. The path was, as Eigaze had said, steep. In places the trees had shielded it, but mostly it was thickly drifted and very hard going. Even Hardgraa was having trouble under his load. All four adults were sweating and gasping out puffs of steam in the bitter air.

  But obviously Yewdark was big, and isolated, and private. Eshiala could not have invented so wonderful a refuge, a personal paradise.

  Eventually the path emerged from the woods and vanished into a tangle of thorny bushes that had once, perhaps, been a rose garden. Straight ahead was the great sprawl of the house itself, inscrutably gray in the drab winter evening, crouched under its burden of snow. Its innumerable windows were dark, the walls furred with ivy. The only touches of color were the tall orange chimney pots, one of which trailed a welcome banner of smoke.

  “There! ” The countess had paused to catch her breath. “It’s delightful, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely,” Eshiala agreed, wondering what her parents would think of such a mansion being left to decay while lawyers argued over its corpse. “See the pretty house, Maya?”

  “These thorns will be tricky, ma’am,” Hardgraa growled. His craggy face was flushed and shiny from his exertions, for he was bowed under an enormous pack.

  “I think we can go around them,” the proconsul said, head thrust out like a turtle’s, as usual. “Let’s try that way. Front door’s round there.”

  He was right. A few minutes’ easy walk brought them to wide steps, leading up to the main door. It was open.

  Hardgraa grunted. He slipped out of the straps and dropped his burden to the ground. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he bore a legionary’s short sword, and now he drew it. “Centurion!” Ionfeu exclaimed.

  “Don’t like this, my lord! Smoke? Door open?”

  “Obviously no one has trampled this snow.” The old man gestured at the untrodden white.

  “But it looks like we’re expected!”

  “Nonsense! ” the count snapped. “There’s no danger here! Come, my dear.”

  Nevertheless, Hardgraa went by him and strode ahead, leaving his bundle where it lay. Eshiala followed the unsteady old couple. By the time they had reached the entrance, the centurion had vanished inside. The others paused for a moment in front of that ominous dark opening. Before any of them moved, a figure emerged from the shadows within, advancing to meet them.

  She was short, and round, and her wizened face peered out from a strange collection of clothes. In one tiny, gnarled hand, she brandished a five-branch candelabra, flames dancing faintly in the daylight. Filmed old eyes blinked blindly at the sun. “Where is he?” she shrilled.

  The newcomers stopped in astonishment. Maya screamed and buried her face in her mother’s collar. Eshiala herself could not hide her twinge of alarm. Eigaze had mentioned an elderly housekeeper, but had given no warning of this apparition. She was swathed in innumerable misassorted garments. Ball-gown lace trailed around her boots, overlain by gowns of wool and taffeta of many colors, the inner layers revealed at neckline and cuffs; there must have been at least six of them, and three or four cloaks over them, at least two with fur collars. Her head was draped in several shawls, capped by an incongruous antique hat, a man’s hat topped by an ostrich plume. A wide sash tied around her in an enormous bow made her look like a badly wrapped parcel.

  “Wrong!” she exclaimed, waving the candelabra. “Wrong, wrong, wrong!”

  “Mistress Ukka!” Eigaze exclaimed. “You remember us, of course? And-“

  “Where is he? They said he was coming!”

  The countess fell back a step, colliding with her husband. “Who was coming? I mean, who said?”

  “The voices said!” The crone peered around suspiciously. “The duke! Duke Yllipo? Where is he?”

  The newcomers exchanged uneasy glances. How could this ancient hag in her hermitage have possibly known about Ylo? It must be coincidence, surely? Ravings? Eshiala wondered what had happened to the centurion, although he was likely just exploring the warren.

  “Oh, he is probably still in Hub,” Ionfeu said. “The property has changed hands, weren’t you informed? The imperor deeded it to-“

  “The imperor is dead!” Ukka exclaimed, and cackled. “Good riddance! Bloody-handed old bastard!” She fell silent for a moment, her wrinkles writhing in amusement. Then the urgency returned. “But they said he would be here, said he was coming at last.”

  “You are mistaken…”

  Then the old woman’s uncertain gaze seemed to light on Eshiala for the first time. She opened her mouth, displaying a few rotted pegs of teeth. “Ah! It is you!”

  “Who? I mean, me?”

  “His love!” cried the housekeeper. “The Promised One!” She flung the candlestick away and fell to her knees in the snow before the impress.

  5

  “It’s my turn to be cook,” the king of Krasnegar announced. “But I should warn you that there is only one dish I ever manage successfully. Anyone object to my trying?”

  “If you refer to your celebrated chicken dumplings,” Sagom said quickly, “then I testify to your expertise.”

  Shandie made some tactful, noncommittal comment. Ylo noted traces of amusement on the faces of Sir Acopulo and the Jarga woman. The alternative would be another meal conjured up by the warlock, and dwarvish cuisine was notably lacking in both flavor and quantity. At noon Raspnex had produced meager portions of watery gruel and hard black bread.

  If the little man detected the implications, he gave no sign. He was slumped back in the shabbiest armchair, which was so much too large for him that his oversize boots barely hung out over the edge. He seemed to be lost in thought, making raspy noises as he scratched at his curly gray beard.

  The six men were grouped in an irregular circle in the deckhouse. The sailor sat back by herself in a corner, showing no evidence that she had stood watch for almost a whole day and night. She was a sorceress, of course. Ylo wondered what sort of meal a jotunn would favor. He decided that the portions would be generous, but her taste would likely run to some sort of disgusting boiled fish or seal flipper soup.

  Darkness had brought a change in the weather. The ship rocked at anchor, and sleet pattered on the deckhouse roof. Mundane sailors could not travel in such weather, and the sorcerers had decided not to risk drawing attention to themselves by doing so.

  King Rap had observed the reaction to his offer. Smiling wryly, he rose and walked over to a table, balancing easily against the roll of the floor. “How about a little wine first?” He picked up a dusty flagon that had not been there a moment before, and pried off the seal. Then he began to pour, and each time he tilted the flagon, a crystal goblet appeared to catch the flow.

  He began handing the drinks around. Only the dwarf declined, being suddenly in possession of a foaming tankard of beer, which would be more to his taste.

  Ylo decided that sorcery was handy stuff. The saloon was sleepily warm, and bright with an occult light that had no detectable source. When he had gone out on deck a few moments earlier, he had discovered that the light did not show out there at all. Now he accepted a goblet of wine, reflecting that he had never before been served by a king.

  “Excellent, sire. Valdolaine?”

  “Valdopol, the seventy-two,” the faun solemnly said. He tried a sip from his own goblet and pulled a face. “No, it tastes more like the ninety-four. “

  “I would have sworn it was Valdoquoon sixty-seven,” Doctor Sagorn stated firmly.

  The sorcerer picked up the bottle again and peered at it. “By the Power of Evil, you are absolutely correct! Now, how could I have made such a mistake? ” Shaking his head sadly, he headed back to his cha
ir.

  Ylo had already registered that the king of Krasnegar had a sense of humor. He wondered why the ancient scholar would join in the foolery. He could hardly be such a complete ignoramus about wine, for the excellent vintage the faun had produced tasted nothing at all like sickly sweet Valdoquoon. But then the old man was a mystery all around. Why was he still here? Why had he not gone ashore with Eshiala and her companions? He was much too frail for the kind of wild adventuring that must he ahead.

  “Too much wine means too little sense,” Acopulo remarked in his usual sanctimonious tones. “I assume we are about to hold another council of war?”

  “I assume the same,” King Rap said, stretching out his long legs jotunn legs, not faun legs. “If anyone knows the answer, will he please speak up clearly?” He raised expectant eyebrows at the little man.

  Acopulo declined the honor with a pout. He had been very subdued ever since he learned that Sagorn was an occult genius. He was outclassed and would not be enjoying the situation.

  Ylo himself had no illusions of being a tactician. He looked around the rest of the group. This expedition was beginning to feel like one of those elimination games children played. Thirteen had escaped from the Covin. Lord Umpily had gone first. Now another five. And

  then there were seven.

  King Rap’s question remained unanswered. He quirked a sad smile and asked another. “The problem is to recruit sorcerers to our cause. How do we spread the word of our new protocol? No suggestions? “

  The dwarf scowled at him under his bushy gray brows. “You could issue a proclamation.”

  “Thank you, not today!” the king said hastily. “And if you plan to, please give me warning.”

  The warlock bared quartz-pebble teeth in refusal and took a long draft of ale.

  The two scholars perked up.

  “Proclamation?” Sagorn asked, ice-blue eyes gleaming. The faun chuckled and seemed to sink back deeper in his chair. “When one of the Four dies, how do you suppose the others find a replacement?”