Upland Outlaws Read online

  He took a look at the magic scroll. The words he had written were gone. In their place he found Gods be with you in Shandie’s neat hand.

  Amen to that!

  Unlike most male nobles in the Impire, Umpily had never served in the army. His father had died in battle when he was very young. His mother had been a bitter widow and a jealous parent, keeping her son very close to her. He had grown up more familiar with gossiping dowagers at tea parties than with companions of his own age.

  His family was small and unimportant, but his title alone had gained him entry to court, even without a sponsor. By the end of his teens, he had wormed his way into court life well enough to be a popular member of the nobility, a skilled collector of gossip, and already plump.

  At forty he was obese, married to a permanently miserable invalid wife, and bored to madness by the pointless, sterile existence of an aristocratic parasite.

  One evening a chance remark informed him of a petty plot to entrap a certain youth, a motherless, fatherless adolescent who could easily be enmeshed in an apparently compromising situation. The threat would be scandal, the price of silence at least a lifetime pension, possibly land. Such things happened all the time and the victims always paid. Usually a hint would escape and then the court would purse lips and snigger and mutter that boys would be boys although not usually that way … and then forget the whole incident in a month.

  In this case, though, the victim was to be the heir apparent. That solemn, solitary fifteen-year-old would not forget such a humiliation in a month, or even in years. Umpily dropped a word of warning and the prince avoided the snare. He was grateful, and also sharp enough to realize that next time he might not be so lucky. Within days, that intense, stick-limbed boy took over Umpily in a strange and almost undefinable partnership. He acquired a mentor and advisor with a subtle grasp of palace politics; Umpily obtained a patron twenty-five years his junior, and also a purpose. For the first time in his life, he learned about loyalty, given and taken. He became as much a confidant as that lonely boy possessed, and thereafter he guarded the lad’s trust as he had never cherished anything before.

  He had watched that shy, awkward youth turn himself into a leader of men by sheer strength of will. He had given what help he could, although he knew it had been small. They had never been close, though-no one was ever close to Shandie, not even his cousins. Umpily himself had an enormous galaxy of acquaintances, and no friends.

  When Shandie arrived at manhood and embarked on a military career, Umpily expected an end to their collaboration, but the prince would not hear of it. He needed eyes and ears within the palace, he said. Later, when he rose to legate, he summoned his chief spy to join the government-in-waiting that was growing up around him.

  Thus military life caught up with Umpily in middle age. For five years he lived in the field. He heard the animal screams of men disemboweled, saw earth turned to mud by boys’ blood. The aging fat civilian came to know more of high-rank military thinking and the true working of an army than most soldiers ever did. He especially understood the value of reliable intelligence. He knew that shrewd commanders would sooner be blessed with first-rate information than first-rate troops. He appreciated that scouting was the most dangerous job in the army and a scout’s career the shortest.

  He could see, therefore, that the odious task he had been given in this present crisis was vital, and yet he could not quite shake a memory of the time Shandie had sacrificed a thousand men to entrap a horde of gnomes. Highscarp had been a brilliant victory, but would those two lost cohorts have thought so?

  Still, today Umpily had no choices to make. The roads were impassable and he was a long way from the palace. Scouting must wait for the thaw. He could concentrate on the other half of his duties.

  If there was any way out of this sorcerous disaster that had befallen the Impire, it lay with the revolutionary proposals made by the king of Krasnegar. A most interesting man! Umpily smacked mental lips at the impact the past two days’ events would have on his memoirs. That future posthumous publication would hold even more importance for scholars than he had ever dreamed-the forging of the second protocol, an epic chapter in the history of the Impire! He might even see it published in his lifetime.

  But the new protocol would remain a dream unless it could be implemented. Somehow the proposals must be advertised, so that all the sorcerers still at liberty could rally to the cause. Logically the first people who should be informed were the missing three wardens-Grunth, Olybino, Lith’rian.

  Grunth seemed unachievable. Trolls were a race of solitary barbarians. She might very well have reverted to isolated savagery, heaving rocks around in sodden jungle. Umpily had not the faintest notion how to establish contact with the former witch of the west.

  Lith’rian would be easiest. He must be down in IIrane, elf country. He might be avoiding his ancestral enclave of Valdorian, but surely he could be reached somehow. Umpily was on first-name terms with many distinguished elves, and no elf would ever completely sever the ties that bound him to his sky tree. Ancient Lord Phiel’nilth, for example, Poet Laureate of the Impire-he would do for a start.

  Umpily’s planned letter to Valdonilth proved surprisingly hard to compose. The first few drafts read like the ravings of a maniac. By the time he had achieved a satisfactory text, he was ready to ring for a waiter and order a light lunch of turnip soup, roast pheasant and lentil mash, accompanied by a dry white wine and followed by some surprisingly savory cheese.

  Refreshed by that and guided by his first letter, he dashed off three more letters, to other prominent elves.

  He took a brief break, then, to ease his aching back and the cramp in his fingers. He rang for candles, for the brief winter day was failing. He noticed that a warm wind was turning the street below his window into a morass of slush. A few carts were creaking by-and the bells had stopped at last.

  That was worth reporting. He unrolled the magic parchment. It was blank, as he had expected it to be, for Shandie’s message would have faded as soon as it had been read. He wrote out an account of the new developments, remembering this time to add the day and hour.

  Then he turned his mind to the Olybino problem. The warden of the east was an imp. He might be hiding somewhere in Hub itself, or he might be anywhere in the Impire. He had been a warlock since before Umpily was born, and Umpily had no knowledge at all of the man’s family or background.

  Women, though … Olybino had always had an eye for the ladies, and several of them had flaunted the notoriety. The warlock had often been generous to them when he had tired of their company-generosity came easy when one could make gold with a snap of the fingers. Was it not possible that he might have taken refuge with one of his recent lady friends?

  Mistress Olalpa was a logical first choice. She had appeared from nowhere in Hub only a few months since. She was young, vivacious, voluptuous, and dripping in wealth. She had never concealed the source of her good fortune. Umpily wrote a carefully phrased letter to Mistress Olalpa. Of course Zinixo might have tracked her down, also, and might even have tracked down Olybino himself, but that was a risk that could not be avoidedthe warlocks Umpily sought might be dead men already. Against that danger was the possibility that some of their votaries might have survived at liberty and might hereby learn of the new protocol: He certainly had nothing better to do with his time.

  The day was ended. Water dripped steadily from the eaves. And the bells had stopped! Why had he not realized the significance of that blessed release sooner? The state funeral must be over. People were getting around the city now, obviously. He should seek out some news, and where better to start than in the taproom downstairs?

  He donned his cloak and headed for the stairs, clutching his packet of letters. He ran into the landlord in the hallway. The surly fellow was in a much better humor now that his customers were returning. Besides, he had learned that this guest was a willing source of bullion. He took the letters and promised to send a boy to the post withou
t delay. With less enthusiasm, he agreed that Umpily could withhold full payment until he had seen the receipts.

  Clutching a foaming tankard of beer, Umpily began edging his way around the saloon, eavesdropping on the conversations of fish merchants, porters, and storekeepers. He learned nothing new, although he heard some mention of the sorcerous battles he had witnessed. Rumor fell short of truth, for the damage was being attributed to freak lightning caused by the storm. He was too early.

  He adjourned to the public dining room for a hearty repast of Cenmere sturgeon, pork cutlets with sage stuffing, roasted spareribs in yam sauce, two bottles of wine, and three different types of cake. There was a fourth cake available, but he didn’t like the look of it.

  Then he returned to the bar to try again, and found what he wanted at once-indeed, he could hardly have missed it. A large audience had gathered around a single speaker. Artisans and tradesmen parted respectfully to let the gentleman move in.

  Emitting strong odors of horse and wet garments, a poxyfaced youngster was propped against the bar, earning his tipple with an eyewitness account of the imperial funeral. It sounded genuine. He was a skilled raconteur, spinning out his tale and generously allowing many of his listeners a chance to buy the next installment. The glittering procession seemed to be leagues long-bands, ambassadorial delegations, representatives of half the legions in the army, senators and assemblymen and aristocrats. Umpily began to wonder whether the old man would be safely underground before the teller fell down himself.

  “A great sight they was,” the boy said blearily, and drained his tankard yet again. He leaned back and peered hopefully at the listeners. His capacity was remarkable.

  Umpily had finished his own beer. “Waiter!” he said.

  The raconteur beamed as another stein was laid at his elbow. “Your health, my lord! ” He was not so drunk that he could not recognize a gentleman. “Where was I?”

  “The imperor himself ?” Umpily said sharply. He knew the sensational climax the storyteller was holding back, and he wanted to get it out of him to see how the audience would take it.

  The lad frowned uncertainly. “Battle honors? Or the Praetorians was next?”

  “No, the imperor! I mean, the imperor was there, wasn’t he?”

  Hiccup! “Oh, yesh! His majeshty was there, Gods bless him, on a pure white horse. I saw the tears in his-“

  “You’re certain?”

  “Certain I’m certain! Think I don’t know Shandie, me who drove the first mule train into the camp at Fain?”

  Umpily’s tankard slid from his fingers and crashed to the floor. An illusory imperor? A Shandie mirage?

  Of course! What could be easier for Zinixo and his evil Covin to arrange? Rap, Raspnex, Ionfeu, Acopulo-none of them had thought of that obvious ploy!

  2

  The enthronement of the new imperor was to be held at noon on the following day. Umpily must be there. He knew he was crazy, but he could not force himself to stay away. If the sorcerers were going to produce a Shandie mirage convincing enough to fool the entire court and government, then he must see it for himself.

  As soon as he heard of the imperor illusion, he rushed up to his room and wrote about it on the magic scroll. The message he had written earlier was still visible, meaning that Shandie had not unrolled his copy yet, but there was room on the vellum for more.

  The enthronement was not the coronation. That would not happen for a long time, after the official mourning. A new imperor must be confirmed by the wardens, though, so mourning was traditionally suspended for a couple of hours to allow that unique consecration. The enthronement would be the last state ceremony for months, the last time the new imperor would appear in public. Umpily must attend!

  He went back downstairs and tried to arrange transportation. That proved to be impossible. The city was in chaos. Some horses and carts were getting through, but not a coach could be found for hire, nor yet a horse. He even contemplated commissioning a boat, then remembered the wind and changed his mind. He decided to walk. Five leagues was not so far-legionaries marched that much day in and day out, every one of them loaded like a mule. Shandie had often led his men twice that far in emergencies, and on forced marches he did so in person, on foot.

  Of course Umpily carried more weight all the time than a legionary ever did, and he had never walked a league in his life, but this was certainly an emergency. He would betray Shandie’s trust if all he reported was hearsay.

  He could hire some locals as guards, but they would guess why they were wanted and therefore be more dangerous than stray footpads. He was an outlaw now; like a true conspirator, he must rely on stealth. With his magic scroll in his pocket and his bag of gold slung at his waist, he hugged his cloak tight about him and strode out the back door.

  He realized eventually that the distance on the ground was much more than five leagues. The roads were thick with drifts and freezing slush, and they were mostly very dark. He set his teeth and prepared to face the worst night of his life.

  Dawn found him close to the Gold Palace, already within the five hills that defined the ancient center of Hub. His toes were frozen, his feet chafed raw by wet boots, his ankles aflame. He wished he could cut off his legs at the knee.

  Rain had started to fall, turning snow to slush and mud.

  The time had come to choose a destination. When he had returned to the capital the previous summer as a widower, he had sold his home and moved into Oak House, residence of the prince imperial. To return there would be to capitulate to Zinixo. He had many acquaintances who would take him in, but none he would trust not to mention his presence. If Legate Ugoatho had been bespelled by the Covin, then the Praetorian Guard was hunting for Lord Umpily, and the Guard had many excellent informers within the aristocracy. It was aristocracy.

  Inevitably, Umpily decided to find himself a rooming house. There were many of those around the palace, patronized by provincial officials when their duties brought them to the capital. Many of them were comfortable, even luxurious. As soon as the sun was up, he chose one with a VACANCY sign in a window, and invented a vague story about luggage delayed by the snow. He had gold, and gold solved all problems.

  He ate a large breakfast of roast venison and brussels sprouts followed by rolls and honey, and felt better.

  Common sense said that he should now catch up on his sleep. By evening, the events in the Rotunda would be general knowledge, and he would be able to find out everything he wanted in the nearest saloon. Common sense said that to enter the Rotunda would be disaster.

  The magic scroll remained unchanged. Shandie had not yet read the message. That was unfortunate, for he might guess what his agent in Hub was planning and forbid him to take such an absurd risk. Umpily would welcome those orders!

  Yet he was an imp-left to himself, he could not bear to stay away.

  His first requirement was a toga, and that was not hard to find. A couple of bedsheets might have sufficed, but his new landlady was impressed to learn that her boarder was invited to the enthronement, and she had a nephew in the drapery business. Fortunately, Umpily had practiced with his valet only a few days before. He was confident he could wrap himself adequately.

  With the capital in its present turmoil, transportation proved harder to arrange. Again his landlady proved resourceful, although the fee quoted would have purchased the vehicle and its horses outright in normal times, and probably the coachman as well, at least for a night or two. Another nephew, probably.

  And then it was late arriving. Having had no chance to rest at all, Umpily found himself swathed in fine white flannel, sitting on the edge of his bed, eating a few precautionary ham and cheese sandwiches with a dry mouth. He was shaking, but how much from fatigue and how much from terror he could not tell. He was a listener, a talker-not a man of action! He had never considered himself a coward, merely cautious, but he had few illusions about being a hero. No matter how often he reassured himself that all eyes would be on the performers and none
on the audience, he did not believe a word of it. Some of those Praetorians had eyes in the back of their helmets. Sorcerers could see around corners.

  But he was too much an imp to stay away.

  Then his jumpy gaze lighted on the magic scroll, lying where he had put it on the mantel. He rose and shuffled across the room in his ill-fitting ornamental sandals. The vellum bore a note in Shandie’s writing: Am advised that imposture more probable than illusion. Your information invaluable. Take no unnecessary risks. E.

  Hooves splashed in the street outside the window, wheels rumbled. The rain was growing heavier.

  Should he take the scroll with him or not? If he was apprehended, he might still have time to dash off a warning note. On the other hand, Raspnex had warned him that a sorcerer would see the spell on it. Discretion prevailed. In a shaky hand, Umpily wrote, Going to attend enthronement. Will leave this behind. He tucked the scroll under his pillow and went out to the coach.

  The landlady and her household had assembled to applaud their distinguished guest. With one arm and both shins bare, he felt completely ridiculous. Shandie, he remembered, hated togas with a passion, and now he saw why.

  Ten minutes later, his undistinguished common cab came to a halt at the end of a long line of splendid carriages waiting to enter the palace gates. The coachman tapped on the hatch. “What name, my lord?”

  Only then did Umpily realize that he would not be admitted to the Rotunda without an invitation. He was completely unqualified for such deceitful business. A real spy would have foreseen this! Panic stabbed in his bowels like a sword.

  “Praetor Umphagalo.” That was the name he had given at the rooming house, the name of a minor official he had met once in Pithmot. It satisfied the driver, who closed the hatch again, but it would not convince the guards without some credentials to back it up.